Sally Drabbles
by SallyJAvery
Summary: HP drabbles. Lunarry 1, 14; Dramione 2, 5&6, 13, 23, 37; Pottgrass 3, 25; Snagonagall 4; Snuna 7; Harvati 8; Permione 9, 26; Thuna 10; Gintonic 11, 27, 30; Sirimione 12; Theomione 15, 28; Drarry 16, 33; Dumbletrix 17; Harielle 18; Tomione 19; GinDrarry 20; Nevmione 21; Regulily 22; Jily 24; Hansy 29; Harmony 31, 35; Harcissa 32; Thuna 34
1. 1: Picnic

_These started life on Tumblr so if you follow me on there apologies for the repeat! As ever I would love to know what you think, (no pairing hate please) and hope you enjoy. I've stolen **olivieblake's** excellent one-shot category system so you get a head's up as to what's going on..._

* * *

 ** _Picnic_**

 _Pairing: Lunarry_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: M_

* * *

Hogwarts had been home for a while but it had become a prison too: a place where he was trapped between his destiny and his homework. Sirius had left him Grimmauld Place but the air of it was choked with ghosts, and the nightmares were always worse when he stayed there. The Burrow was suffocating, and the idea of Privet Drive being home was laughable.

When he'd told her he was leaving, Ginny had offered him the quick, bright grin that he had fallen in love with. The quick, bright grin that had started to burn and blister his shadowed heart. The quick, bright grin that had become tinged with sadness whenever she looked his way. She'd known it couldn't last. He found her brilliance far more bearable from a distance.

"You had to walk a path that was laid out for you for nearly twenty years," she said, "I really don't see what the problem is with wanting to wander a bit."

 _It's more than wandering_ , Harry wanted to yell. Wanted to whisper. _It's running towards something that's never there_.

Hermione had feigned resignation, her worry only showing in the tightness of her hug before he left her flat for the last time. He had felt her hand trace the jut of his shoulderblades. "I have to," he whispered, "I can't stay here."

She'd nodded in reply, her hair scratching against the few day's growth of stubble that covered his cheek. "I know," she said, stepping back and swiping a hand across her eyes.

Draco had wrapped an arm around her shoulders, reaching the other hand to clasp Harry's. "Keep yourself safe, Potter," he'd murmured, "She'd be ever so upset if you didn't."

Harry had smiled ruefully at his former nemesis, "I'll be fine."

He went to move away but Draco had gripped his hand tighter, "It doesn't have to be a place, you know," he breathed, so quietly that for a moment Harry wasn't sure he'd heard him properly. "Home," Draco continued, his eyes moving to the top of Hermione's head, "It can be a person."

 **OOOOO**

It had been a wet spring and he'd been glad, in the end, that Hermione had insisted he take a tent. He charmed the canvas so that it reflected the sky above him and left the porch unzipped to admit the cool night air. His boots were beginning to fall apart, too far gone for even _reparo_ spells to really have much effect. He'd need to buy new ones soon, but the idea of braving Diagon Alley filled him with dread.

He knelt by a stream to fill his water bottle with something that didn't have the stale taste of an _aguamenti_ charm, then stretched himself upright and trudged on through the dawn mist.

The field appeared gradually, the young, green corn gleaming in the morning sun. Harry felt as though he were walking out of a dream as he crossed from the cool shade of the woods and into the sudden warmth of summer.

A quick tempus told him it was May Day. _Beltane_ , whispered that hushed part of his mind that had come to life in his months of silence. He knew, as he'd journeyed across the British Isles, that he'd started instinctively following ley-lines. _Fairy paths,_ he remembered Professor Binns saying, _mostly lost after the Goblin Wars._ A cornfield on May Day seemed a fitting destination for someone walking in the steps of the fair folk.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to see the flash of her golden hair. She was sat in a clearing in the middle of the field, on a patchwork rug, what looked like a full tea service arranged before her. She'd been staring off into the distance but when his shadow fell across her she turned towards him. Her mouth made a shape that was strange and beautiful and might have been a smile.

"Hello Harry," she said simply, "It's a lovely day for a walk."

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging awkwardly at its tangled length. "Hi, Luna," he replied finally. "What are you doing here?"

She'd been reaching for a teacup, the pot already hovering in the air beside her, but at his words she glanced up at him, grey eyes huge and curious. "Waiting to be found," she said, handing him the now-full cup on its dainty saucer.

Harry took it and sat down, setting the tea on the ground as he shrugged out of his pack. He was aware suddenly that his t-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat; that he had dirt beneath his fingernails. Luna, by contrast, appeared so clean that she was almost shimmering. Harry picked up his tea and sipped it, at once floral and astringent. Rose, he thought. Rose and orange and something that could have been hazel.

Luna watched him as he drained the cup, and when he'd finished Harry set it down once more and smiled to himself. He had spent months surrendering himself to the land, letting it lead him somewhere.

 _It doesn't have to be a place_ , Draco had said.

"I brought food, too," Luna whispered, producing figs, honeyed pastries; soft cheeses and strawberries. When she lifted one of the red fruits to his mouth Harry bit gently into it, his lips brushing against her thumb, his eyes never leaving hers.

She tasted of mint leaves, and when he twisted his fingers in her hair she gave a sharp little gasp that had him breaking away, searching her eyes for permission. Luna blinked slowly, cocking her head like a bird and raising her hand to trace the faded lightning scar on his brow. She moved her fingers to his jaw, drawing his chin forwards and letting him kiss her again, her mouth languid against his.

When she pushed him back it was a gentle movement, hands splayed on his chest as she straddled him, her mouth breaking away from his as she removed his shirt, as she slipped herself free from the gauzy slip that had been all she was wearing.

Harry felt the insistent press of the earth against his spine as she rode him, and when the magic surged and roiled he tucked an arm around her waist and rolled so that he was atop her. Her fingers found the spaces between his ribs and grasped him as she tightened and moaned, and beneath them the ley line crackled and sparked with renewed life.

When, many hours later, darkness began to slip and coil around them, Luna threaded her fingers through his and bent to pick up the picnic basket. She hummed softly as she started picking her way back through the cornfield. "We find the things we're looking for, in the end," she said, casting Harry a small smile over her shoulder. "If not always in the way we expect."

* * *

 _For **bentnotbroken1.**_

 _So, yeah. I've got a few of these to stick up. Say hi, and if you'd like me to write you something then drop me a PM or a review with pairing + scenario (I won't do Romione, Harmony, Snamione or non-con)_


	2. 2: Downton

**_Downton_**

 _Pairing: Dramione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: T (language)_

* * *

"Budge up."

Draco raised his eyes slowly to hers, one pale brow sliding up his forehead as he made no move to surrender even an inch of the sofa that he was sprawled across.

Hermione placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You promised, Draco."

"I don't recall promising exactly…"

"We're watching it!" Hermione's voice came out shrill even to her ears, and she caught his wince. Trying to modulate her tone, she continued, "I'm tired, I have cramps, and I just want to curl up with you and watch fluffy TV."

She sniffled for effect, but she knew she had him at cramps. Draco was terrified of a repeat of what had become known as the 'spring roll incident', when purchasing chinese food from the wrong restaurant had resulted in uncontrollable hormonal weeping.

It was a shame, Hermione reflected to herself as she watched him trying to make scrambling upright look dignified, that she could only play this card once every few weeks. She flopped down next to him, laying her head in his lap and feeling the way his fingers went immediately to her hair. _So easy._ And he thought he was the manipulative one.

"Put this on, will you," she said, edging the words around a yawn.

Draco sighed but opened the box, levitating the DVD to the player. It had taken Hermione a week of tricky spellwork when they'd first moved in to get the household electronics to respond to charms, but now that she had she was fairly certain the products could be marketed. Wizards might turn their noses up at muggle things, but she hadn't met one yet who wasn't entranced by television.

"I don't know why you want me to watch this Downtown rubbish," Draco groused, slouching slightly and draping his arm across her upper chest. "It sounds terrible."

"Downton," Hermione murmured, snuggling further into him, "and it isn't rubbish." She turned her face to the TV as the piano notes signified the start of the credits. The view of Highclere Castle, the opening shutters, everything agleam. She felt Draco tense a little, and too late wondered if it were perhaps too close to home. He didn't say anything though, and after a moment he relaxed, his hand carding through her curls once more.

Mr Bates's thoughtful face was the first onscreen, and Draco shifted a little beneath her. "Is that the Lord of the Manor? On a train?"

"No, that's the new valet. He's on his way to join the staff."

She didn't have to see his face to know he was frowning, "The staff? Muggles have…he's a muggle house-elf?"

"Will you just shut up and watch?" She groaned for effect, smiling secretly to herself when he stroked her arm in a comforting gesture.

He stayed quiet for a time, until the Dowager Countess made her case for Mary to inherit the estate. "She seems to have the right idea," Draco murmured, "Tough old bird, I'd say?"

"I like her," Hermione answered, rubbing her cheek against his thigh.

After that Draco seemed genuinely engaged, asking the occasional quiet question but mostly watching in silence. Once the credits rolled he gave an audible sigh, stretching his arms above his head before bending over her, dropping a light kiss on her mouth. "Have I been sufficiently punished now?" he asked.

Hermione smiled, bumping her nose against his, "I guess you can be forgiven."

 **OOOOO**

Two thanklessly long days later, and Hermione was about ready to throw out Mermaid rights altogether. She wanted a shower, and she wanted Draco to fuck her until she couldn't remember her name, let alone the Mermish for 'Primogeniture.'

It was late, and she was too tired to call before flooing home. Stumbling out of the fireplace, it took her a moment to process what she was seeing.

Draco was arranged in his characteristic sprawl across the sofa. Harry was nestled in the beanbag, and Theo had tucked himself into the armchair. All three were staring at her like rabbits in headlights, and Hermione turned her head slowly to look at the TV screen, dreading to think what they could have been watching.

At the sight of Daisy in her wedding dress Hermione squawked indignantly, "You're already halfway through series two!"

Draco jumped up from the sofa, dislodging a careful stack of empty takeaway containers as he did so. Theo lunged forward to catch them and Draco half-tripped over his hand, ending up in a crouch in front of Hermione. Harry had had the presence of mind to pause the DVD, and now watched with a smirk.

"Erm." Draco said, "Potter had the day off, and Theo was bored, and it was raining…" his voice trailed away, the guilt on his face so pathetic that Hermione couldn't help but laugh. And once she'd started, it was hard to stop.

"You're terrible," she choked out finally.

Draco paused, then gave her a calculating look, "I take that as a compliment?"

Hermione grinned at him, "I must have said it wrong."

* * *

 _For **olivieblake**_


	3. 3: Red Riding Hood

_**Red Riding Hood**_

 _Pairing: Haphne_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: T (language)_

* * *

Their feet were rooted in the meadows from which the family had taken their name. Rich earth, the scent of rain and sharp green blades. Roses bloomed and ivy twined thick across the walls of the Manor. The laurels planted at her birth had grown lush and full and perfumed.

They were of the earth, and when the earth called they were bound to answer.

Her mother lifted the cloak of red silk from the ancient chest and draped it around Daphne's shoulders, lifting her pale hair so that the soft curls unwound themselves down her back. "You make a fine sight," Iris whispered, though her eyes glittered with tears.

Astoria refused to turn away from the window, her spine a rigid line of fury. _Noone cares about the old ways anymore_ , her sister had screamed after the Sending gave its message, _Why do we have to be different?_

Daphne had shuddered at her father's biting reply, _Because we owe the land a debt that cannot be ignored._

Ever since the Sending had spoken she had felt the prickle of fear upon her skin. The taste of it upon her tongue. _Your firstborn blood will follow the woodpath to Grandmother._

It had been many centuries since Grandmother had demanded blood. It had never occurred to Daphne that the Greengrass debt might not yet be paid.

Gritting her teeth, she bent and picked up the basket that had been filled with the traditional gifts: a necklace of tiny adder fangs, a laurel branch, feathers from a snowy owl and the ever-incongruous elf wine. Her knees shook as she straightened.

Hyperion stepped forward to place the garland on her head: lilies and ivy tied with unicorn hair, the whole thing strung with freshwater pearls. He brushed a dry kiss over her forehead and then his eyes moved past Astoria to where the sun was creeping above the dark shapes of the wood at the bottom of the lawn.

"It's time," he said, and were it not for the fact that he could not look at her Daphne would have believed that he did not care.

 **OOOOO**

The path was lit with faint blue witchlights, guiding her onwards. Daphne felt as though her feet moved independently of thought. _Mechanical_. She remembered the word from a throwaway remark in her Muggle Studies class, years ago.

The trees made strange shapes above her, branches reaching over what should have been clear space to knit their spindly fingers into an organic cage.

Daphne could feel the prickle of sweat between her shoulderblades, over her temples. The sun was overhead, directing its beams between the cruel, pointed branches.

Time had become an odd thing, curling up and away from her, twisting itself into strange, refractory shapes. How long had she been walking?

The Dower House appeared suddenly around a bend that was straight ahead, and Daphne felt her shoulders drop. She'd been hoping, given the length of the walk, that the land might have decided it didn't want her after all. No such luck, apparently.

The basket weighed heavy in the crook of her arm, and she raised her hand to knock on the door.

Strong fingers gripped her wrist before her fist could hit the weathered planks. "What the hell are you doing?"

It took her a moment to answer, too surprised that anyone would interrupt something so sacred. His eyes flashed at her from behind his glasses, green as the meadows of her name.

"You shouldn't be here, Potter," she breathed, shock warring with relief. She wrenched her wrist, trying to free herself from his grip, "What are you playing at?"

"Astoria," he said, "She summoned the Aurors."

She realised suddenly that for all her efforts his hand was still wrapped tight around her arm.

"This is none of your concern," she breathed.

His dark brows drew together, "She said you were being offered as a sacrifice."

His hold relaxed slightly, letting her knuckles make the barest tap against the wood.

All at once magic screamed to life around them: growl and snap. Daphne felt the sing of it in her bones; the itch and scratch and howl.

Harry had gathered her in his arms, his grip too tight and too hot and too safe. "Don't move," he whispered, the words warm against her ear.

The woods shook and screeched around them and Daphne could feel the burning breath of Grandmother's creatures as they slavered against Harry's fingers on her neck.

"Fuck this," he murmured and reached into the basket, producing, improbably, a glittering sword. "Wow, what big teeth you have," he laughed loudly as he swung the blade, and Daphne heard the heavy thud of something hitting the loamy floor.

"Stop it," she hissed, twisting in the circle of his arm and raising her hands before her. "Our fight is done," she growled, directing her voice into the gap and sway of the trees. She felt the magic surge and coil and crack about the pair of them.

Eventually the wind dropped, and Harry took a deep breath, his hard stomach expanding into the curve of her back. "What just happened?" he asked, his shaking voice betraying the nonchalance of his tone.

Daphne turned in his arms, pressing herself against him. She fingered the delicate embroidery on his robes - bay leaves, green edged in red.

"You have a prize to claim," she breathed, turning her face up towards his.

* * *

 _For **CarmineDuvale.**_

 _Lilith is described as 'Grandmother' or 'Grandmother Eve' in a few sources **.**_


	4. 4: Bezoar

**_Bezoar_**

 _Pairing: Snagonagall_

 _Universe: Potterverse, first year, canon-compliant (I DARE YOU TO SAY IT DIDN'T HAPPEN)_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

"Everybody _out._ "

Severus barely raised his voice above a silken whisper, but he made that whisper reach the back wall of the dungeon and reverberate as though he had shouted.

As one the first-year students scrambled to get to the door. Barely two months into their Hogwarts careers, and they had all learned that the Potions Master's fury was a thing not to be trifled with.

"Longbottom!" Serverus snapped, just before the door swung shut on the clownish boy's backside.

"Y-yes, sir?" The look that Longbottom gave him was one of utter dread.

"You will serve detention with me every night next week, Longbottom," Severus hissed, "And twenty points from Gryffindor for disrupting class with your _incompetence_."

The boy blanched, nodded, and then scuttled away when Severus flicked his hand impatiently. The door finally closed behind him, the muffled _boom_ echoing around the stone chamber.

With the students gone Severus gingerly made his way towards the boy's abandoned workstation. Long experience had taught him that poorly-made potions were nothing to be trifled with, and so as he moved through the room he inspected the potions left behind by other students briefly before vanishing them. One could not simply perform an _evanesco_ without knowing the particulars of what one was dissolving into the ether.

In the case of a potion made by Neville Longbottom, it really was _anyone's_ guess what the component parts might be.

He had been alerted to the potential disaster quite literally _brewing_ in the corner when Longbottom's potion had made a terrible belching sound and emitted a cloud of yellow sparks, accompanied by a sickeningly sweet scent.

Now, Severus's worst suspicions were confirmed as he saw that what should have been the soft, periwinkle blue of a Calming Draught was in fact a pallid pink, bubbling menacingly. _Dear gods_ , he thought to himself _, what on earth had the boy been_ doing?

Severus drew his wand carefully, meaning to transfigure the cauldron into a sealed box around the potion, but before he could do anything the pink mass swelled and spat, and a fat glob of liquid landed on Severus's bare cheek and melted into his skin.

He froze, blinked; felt his heartbeat speed and race. Whatever Longbottom had managed to do, it was quick-acting. Severus could feel an uncharacteristic flush spreading over his cheeks, and reached up to smooth his hair away from his suddenly too-hot face.

A Bezoar. Contain the damage and then swallow a bezoar to counteract whatever bizarre effect the boy's potion was having upon him. Severus nodded to himself and was just raising his wand to perform the transfiguration when the door of the classroom swung open once more.

"Professor Snape!"

Minerva McGonagall's sharp voice rang through the classroom, and Severus felt his already racing pulse kick into overdrive.

Suddenly, the transfiguration seemed unimportant. Severus turned slowly, gazing in stupefaction at the straight-backed witched storming her way across his classroom.

"Minerva," he murmured, his eyes skating across the dark twist of her hair, her flashing gaze, the disapproval of her pursed mouth.

"I just encountered the first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin classes on their way to the Great Hall, half an hour before lunch is due to begin," she declaimed. Severus wondered how he had managed to ignore the beauty of her Scots brogue before now. "I assume you have an explanation as to why you dismissed them so early?"

"Forgive me," he breathed, falling to his knees and catching her hand between his. "I feared the harm Longbottom's potion might do, and so I bade them leave." He raised his dark eyes, gazing hungrily at her, "But now I must confess myself _glad_ that I did, Minerva, for we are afforded the empty classroom, and I might speak what is in my heart –"

She pulled her fingers away from his lips, twin spots of colour dancing in a fetching manner on her cheeks. After a quick glance at the potion still bubbling away on the workbench behind Severus's shoulder, Minerva twirled her wand and transfigured the cauldron into a cube of glass encasing whatever vile concoction Longbottom had managed to mix up.

Severus, meanwhile, had shuffled forwards on his knees, clutching at the front of her robes. He had pushed his hair back to reveal the stark lines of his face that were usually hidden behind the heavy curtains.

 _Not handsome,_ Minerva caught herself thinking, _But striking nonetheless._

"Minerva," he was murmuring, lips pressed to her stomach, hands gripping her hips, "You are such a singular witch Minerva, I can deny myself no longer-"

"GOODNESS," Minerva cried, wrenching herself backwards, " _There_ are your bezoars." She grabbed one of the waxy white stones from a high shelf and stuffed it unceremoniously into his open mouth.

Severus coughed, his eyes bulging, and rocked backwards. After a moment he spat the stone into his hand, his gaze remaining fixed on the floor as a bright flush of embarrassment bloomed over his sallow cheeks.

"Ah," he said huskily, "Professor McGonagall, I must beg-"

"Think nothing of it, Professor Snape," she said, making sure to keep her tone cool and professional as she straightened her robes. "I am glad that I was here to aid you in overcoming this unfortunate incident."

Snape stood in a flurry of jet-black robes. "Indeed," he breathed. "I am most grateful."

There was an awkward pause, and Minerva drew herself up to her full height. "I will see you at dinner later, then," she said, turning smartly on her heel and sweeping her way out of the Potions classroom.

She was met by a gaggle of nervous first-years in the corridor.

"Professor!" Potter's piercing voice was impossible to ignore. "Is everything alright, Professor?"

She fished her spectacles from her pocket, setting them on her nose and doing her best to look sternly at him over the top of them. "Quite alright, Mr Potter. Professor Snape was able to contain the effects of Mr Longbottom's potion before any lasting harm could be done."

With that, she marched away down the passageway, trying to ignore the lingering warmth that had spread itself across the top of her chest.

 _Really Minerva_ , she told herself, _the poor man was suffering the ill-effects of a potion._

She reached her office, closing and locking the door behind her.

It had been somewhat…thrilling…to have him prostrate himself before her.

After all, with his hair swept out of his face, and that faintly feverish colour in his cheeks, Severus Snape was really rather fetching.

* * *

 _For **MahoganyJinx** , who wanted Snape, McGonagall and some love potion funnies._

 _I have to admit that usually anything with Snape is a bit of a squick for me but with the publication of the first chapter of **Youth** by **olivieblake** (which has some Snily vibes) I sat myself down and said, "Come on Sally: open mind, open heart." And you've just read the result of that._

 _Still to come (probably in this order): a Dramione for **littlechmura** , a Harvati for **electriques** (possibly a G&T too), a Snuna for **mannamay** , and a Pervmione for **Pearls of Wimsey**._

 _If you have a request please send it my way via whichever medium suits you best._


	5. 5: Edits (Part 1)

**_Edits (part 1)_**

 _Pairing: Dramione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE (also wizarding email, so AU I guess)_

 _Rating: K_

 _Notes: for the avoidance of doubt **editrix1909** is Hermione, and **svs0506** is Draco. Hermione is an editor at **Scrips and Sons publishers** , and **Aloysius Scrips**_ _is her boss/Draco's friend._

* * *

 **To: svs0506  
** **From: editrix1909  
Sent 10:23 26/11/2003**

Dear Sir,

Hi! Your editor here - Aloysius Scrips tells me that since you've chosen to remain anonymous you'd prefer not to know who I am either. While it's somewhat unorthodox (and I'd like to think I wouldn't let anything impact my neutrality) I guess I can see why the subject matter might make you a little nervous!

The draft Ali gave me made for very interesting reading. Assuming your sources are reliable (I do understand you wanting to protect those you interviewed but is there any chance you can provide citations for the written material?) then I think you might just have a bestseller on your hands. The chapters about the early history of the Knights of Walpurgis were especially fascinating. I'd consider myself fairly knowledgeable about Voldemort, but there was a lot here that I didn't know. I'm guessing given the content that you managed to gain access to the Malfoy library? I've heard the family can be fairly intransigent, so well done there!

My main concern is that the writing loses a lot of its nuance once you reach Voldemort's return. You have a fantastic opportunity to explore the societal issues that allowed him to have such popular appeal, and at the moment you're squandering it to follow the Ministry message of flat condemnation when it's obvious, reading between the lines, that you could tell a much more interesting story.

Obviously I'm not advocating for a piece of Death Eater apologia, but I lived through Voldemort's renaissance and I know that Bellatrix Lestrange-style fanaticism was the exception rather than the rule. If we're not willing to learn uncomfortable lessons, we're going to repeat our mistakes.

I hope that makes sense! I've sent your manuscript with annotations to the Owl Post Address you provided, but don't hesitate to get in touch if you have questions. I can see why Ali's excited, and I look forward to reading your revisions.

Kind regards,

Editrix1909

* * *

 **To: editrix1909  
From: svs0506  
Sent 09:04 27/11/2003 **

Dear Editrix,

Flattered though I am by your enthusiasm it was my impression, having observed the Death Eater trials and subsequent Ministry efforts to stamp down on extremist behaviour, that the general population would be made uncomfortable by an assessment of the 1995-8 period that was anything less than absolutely condemnatory of the actions of all those who either wore the Dark Mark or whose families were associated with the movement.

Do correct me if I'm wrong.

Yours,

The Author

* * *

 **To: svs0506 From: editrix1909 Sent 09:42 27/11/2003**

Dear Author,

The general population needs to be made uncomfortable, that's my point.

Look, this is an intelligent, well-researched piece of work, and while we'd be ready to publish it as is with only minor revisions, it's my opinion that you'd be doing yourself a disservice if you let us.

Shall we say a rewrite of the second half by the end of January?

Kind regards,

Editrix1909

* * *

 **To: editrix1909  
From: svs0506  
Sent 09:58 27/11/2003**

Dear Editrix,

Fine. Upon your head be it.

Yours,

The Author

* * *

 **To: aloysius  
** **From: svs0506  
Sent 10:03 27/11/2003**

Ali,

I guess you weren't kidding about the ballbuster thing.

DM

* * *

 **To: svs0506  
From: aloysius  
Sent 11:17 27/11/2003**

Malfoy,

You asked me for my best editor, and I was only too happy to oblige.

AS

* * *

 **To: editrix1909  
From: svs0506  
Sent 15:22 03/02/2004**

Dear Editrix,

Without wishing to press you for feedback I do find myself unnerved by the lack of response to the revised draft.

Do you find yourself regretting your encouragement to me to find some sympathy for Death Eaters?

Yours,

The Author

* * *

 **To: svs0506  
From: editrix1909  
Sent 16:09 03/02/2004**

Dear Author,

I'm so sorry not to have replied to you sooner! Quite the contrary - I've read it a couple of times and it's such an improvement. Your evocation of the fear and misery experienced by many of those who followed Voldemort is very sensitive, without offering excuses for any crimes.

Look, I have a few suggestions that it would really be easier to talk over with you in person. I know that you want to be anonymous and blah blah blah, so how's this - I'll be at Caput's Coffees at 2pm on Friday. I'll bring a copy of "Hogwarts a History" with me so you know who I am, but I won't give you my name and there's no need for you to tell me yours.

Kind regards,

Editrix1909

* * *

 **To: editrix1909  
From: svs0506  
Sent 19:31 03/02/2004**

Editrix,

Very well, if you insist.

Yours,

The Author

* * *

 _For **littlechmura.**_

 _Part 2 tomorrow!_


	6. 6: Edits (Part 2)

**_Edits (part 2)_**

 _Pairing: Dramione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

Just before two on Friday afternoon Theo turned up at the Manor. "If you don't go then I will," he threatened, hazel eyes gleaming with mischief, "And I'll lay claim to your genius and then you'll be sorry."

Draco sniffed pointedly and adjusted his cuffs, but allowed himself to be dragged to the fireplace.

Eyes tracked his distinctive hair as they made their way down Diagon Alley towards the coffee shop that Editrix had suggested, but it wasn't as bad as a few years ago. There were no hissed insults; no sneers; and if parents held their children's hands a little tighter as the two men passed, they didn't cross to the other side of the street.

Draco was loth to admit it, but he was burning with curiosity about Ali's star editor. He had appreciated her bluntness, and the incisive, witty comments that she had scrawled all over his manuscript. It had been a long time since a stranger had been frank and open with him, and her willingness to engage with the subject matter and give him honest feedback had surprised him.

He'd caught himself wondering what she looked like, and had made the mistake of confessing as much to Theo. When she'd suggested a meeting in person his tawny-headed friend had threatened to hex him if he refused.

Outside the bright, modern coffee shop (one of a number of new additions to Diagon Alley over the last few years that had brought it screeching into the 21st century) Draco stopped, abruptly terrified.

"She'll recognise me, and then that'll be it," he hissed at Theo, who rolled his eyes.

"She probably will recognise you, yes. You're Draco Malfoy." He shrugged, "Bu-ut she's read your book. She _knows_ you're not the shit everyone thinks you are."

Draco glowered at him, "I am a shit though."

Theo laughed, "Yeah, but not in the way everyone _thinks_." He stood on his toes, peering into the shop, "OK, I can see there's a girl sat there with _Hogwarts: A History_..."

"What does she look like?"

Theo squinted, then frowned and rocked back on his heels. "She's err…she's very pretty."

"She is?" Draco could hear the hopeful note in his voice, but at that moment he didn't care.

"You know," Theo said, tipping his head to the side, "She kind of reminds me of Hermione Granger."

"Granger?" Draco's eyebrows shot up in confusion, "As in Potter, Weasley, Granger?"

"Yeah," Theo turned to look at him, pursing his lips. "You _did_ have a raging crush on her, didn't you?"

"So?" Draco said, "Why are we talking about Granger?"

"Uh," Theo said, "Well if you're not bothered about Granger anymore then you're not going to give two hoots about this girl."

"Why not?" Draco huffed, stepping up to look through the window, just as Theo clapped him on the shoulder.

"Because it _is_ Granger."

 **OOOOO**

Hermione sipped at her tea, trying to calm her nerves. She rearranged the sugar bowl, the large book, and the neatly tied manuscript sat on the tabletop for the fourth or fifth time, and then performed a subtle _tempus_ charm.

He was late. The maddeningly dry, wickedly smart biographer of Voldemort was five minutes late.

She sipped at her tea again and realised the cup was empty. Raising her hand she signalled the waiter, just the door swung open to admit Draco Malfoy.

Hermione cringed, grabbing _Hogwarts: A History_ and attempting to hide behind it. A pale, long-fingered hand appeared over the page in front of her nose, and then Malfoy was pushing the book down to the table. "Well," he said, "Look who it is."

Glowering, Hermione wrenched the book away from him. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he affected a look of innocent concern, "Are you waiting for someone?"

"As a matter of fact I am," she said primly, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

Rather than leaving her alone, Malfoy slid elegantly into the seat opposite, "Well why don't I keep you company until they arrive? After all, it's been _years._ " His pale eyes sparked as he looked at her, "I'm sure we've got loads to catch up on."

"Can I get you something sir?" The waiter who arrived at Draco's elbow was giving him a wide smile, clearly none-too-bothered by a shady past when presented with razor-sharp cheekbones.

"Thank you, I'll have a macchiato," Draco said, ignoring Hermione's squawk of protest.

"You can't _be here_ ," she hissed once the waiter had gone. "I'm meeting someone important."

"Blind date is it?" Draco asked blithely, sipping the coffee that had appeared on the table in front of him.

Hermione's eyes narrowed, but he felt a little thrill of triumph when he saw that she'd gone the slightest bit pink. "It's a business meeting, actually," she ground out.

"Mixing business with pleasure, are we," Draco purred, "My my, Miss Granger."

"Well since I doubt anyone takes pleasure from doing business with you, you'd hardly know, would you?"

He went perfectly still for a moment, and Hermione felt remorse flood through her for the barb. "Malfoy," she started, "I didn't mean-"

"Oh but you did," he said, setting his cup down and rising from the seat. "And you had good reason to mean it." His eyes dropped to the manuscript under her elbow, then flicked back to hers, "Fear and misery make monsters of men, after all."

 **OOOOO**

He was halfway back to the Leaky before she caught up with him, her hand in the crook of his elbow. "You wrote it," she said, a statement of fact, her fingers tightening on his forearm when he made to pull away. She sounded a little out of breath.

Draco grimaced, "Yes, well. Now you see why the desire for anonymity."

She had such huge eyes, he thought. It was impossible to look away. "You wrote it," she repeated in a whisper, and Draco realised her other hand was resting on his chest, over his heart, which was beating wildly.

* * *

 _Directly inspired by the film "You've Got Mail" which is just. so. cute. Second half of a response to **littlechmura** , but also dedicated to **rebelsaurus29**._

 _Tomorrow: the long-awaited **Snuna**..._


	7. 7: Prophecy

**_Prophecy_**

 _Pairing: Snuna_

 _Universe: Canon-compliant to just before end of DH_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

"Your heart will break beneath a summer sky," she whispers, "Will break again when the veil is thin, but under grey clouds will you know the end of hope."

The girl clutches his arm and says it their first day of school, and Severus stares at her in horrified alarm. He's never heard a prophecy before; had thought that Seers couldn't possibly be a real thing; but he can hear the echo of another world in her voice - can taste the unfamiliar magic thick upon the air.

The girl blinks owlishly at him before she turns away without another word, leaving Severus standing alone on the station platform. He has to jog to catch up with the other first years, following Lily's bright flash of hair into a boat.

 **OOOOO**

He thinks his heart might break as the hat cries, 'Gryffindor', as he sees the rueful smile Lily shoots him, but he looks at the ceiling and somehow its deep blackness speckled with stars is somehow comforting.

 **OOOOO**

He thinks for a moment that it might have broken when he sees Lily blush as Remus Lupin's arm brushes hers, but then he recognises the emotion that seeps through him as hatred. Lupin is thick as thieves with Potter and Black and snivelling little Pettigrew, and he resolves then and there to find out just what it is they all get up to when they go sneaking around the castle once a month.

 **OOOOO**

He's incandescent with fury, feels it burning white-hot beneath his skin, and the word leaves his mouth before he realises what he's saying. Lily flinches as though he's slapped her, and he barely notices Potter moving to hex him again as he recognises the hurt in her eyes. He glances upwards at the bright, cloudless blue that arches above him, and thinks, _Ah, there it is_.

 **OOOOO**

When he hears that she's dead he feels as though he too has died. All Hallow's Eve, and the veil is thin indeed.

 **OOOOO**

The boy's eyes are just like hers, and Severus feels his heart twist inside him, too broken to break again. _Hope._ The memory stirs inside him: _Under grey clouds will you know the end of hope_. Lily's son will live, because Severus is not yet quite bereft of hope.

 **OOOOO**

'Please, Severus,' Albus says, and though he wonders if this is it, Severus's eyes find the cloudless night over Albus's shoulder before he casts the curse. No end in sight.

 **OOOOO**

The poison is quick, and the Potter boy is there, and as life leaves him he offers the memories, staring into eyes that are so very green. Hope, until the end. Hope of being a better man.

 **OOOOO**

'Professor - Severus. Wake up, Severus.'

The voice is a sing-song chime, and he feels the hurt spread across his body. Not yet dead? Severus opens his eyes and stares into grey clouds. _Hope_ , he realises. An end: a realisation.

She smiles at him, and her grey eyes shimmer.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : It's short, and, I hope, kind of sweet? Ish? This was written for darling **May8699** who wanted Snunain the potions lab and I just couldn't so we ended up with this..._

 _Next up, Harvati._


	8. 8: Oblivious

**_Oblivious_**

 _Pairing: Harvati (Harry + Parvati)_

 _Universe: OOTP AU_

 _Rating: T_

* * *

A _reducto_ curse went flying past Harry's ear and he spun on his heel to see Parvati's braid whipping behind her in the spell's backdraught, her wand arm raised towards Hermione, who had apparently just ducked.

As she straightened the bushy-haired witch glanced behind her, catching Harry's eye long enough for him to see the expression of outrage descend over her features before she turned back to Parvati. "You _idiot_ , Patil, you could have really hurt me!"

Parvati's pretty face scrunched as she snorted derisively, "Oh please, it wouldn't have touched you." She flicked her head, letting the braid shift to her other shoulder. "I _can_ actually aim a spell." Her lips pursed as she added drily, "Maybe next time you won't dismiss me just because I prefer Divination to Arithmancy, which _by the way -_ "

"Divination isn't even _magic,_ it's just superstitious nonsense -"

Hermione's voice was growing suspiciously shrill and Harry took a step towards the pair, aware as he did so that the rest of the DA were watching the two girls with expressions ranging from amused to worried.

"Oh, _bite me_ Granger," Parvati sneered, and now her wand definitely _was_ pointed at Hermione.

The other girl inhaled sharply, throwing her wand arm out and opening her mouth to cast something that she'd undoubtedly regret.

"ENOUGH," Harry yelled, taking a rather ill-advised step between the two of them. Hermione put her wand up straight away, but Parvati kept hers pointed at him, her dark eyes flashing angrily.

"Stepped up to defend your girlfriend, have you Potter?" she asked quietly, and Harry stared, mystified, as Parvati's wide, lovely mouth tightened.

"I – what?" he said, only to have his bewilderment deepen when Parvati gave a frustrated growl and stormed from the room without another word.

Harry looked around him at the gathered DA members, most of whom seemed to suddenly be finding either the floor or the ceiling _incredibly_ interesting. Ron met his eyes and gave a helpless shrug, mouthing 'Girls' but it was Hermione who broke the silence.

"Maybe…er." She frowned, but not, Harry realised, in confusion. Hermione's expression had that odd blankness that he recognised as her slotting together the pieces of a puzzle. Finally she met his eyes, "You should probably go after her, Harry." She shifted awkwardly, "Check she's alright."

Harry didn't argue, trusting Hermione's advice and grateful for the excuse to escape the distinctly awkward atmosphere of the room.

He pulled the Map from his pocket as he emerged into the seventh-floor corridor, quickly spotting Parvati. She hadn't gone far, seemed to be huddled in an alcove only just round the corner in fact, and so he tucked the Map away and set off after her.

"Parvati?" He said quietly, peering around the statue of a scowling, barrel-chested wizard who looked like Sir Cadogan without armour.

"Go away," she whispered, lifting her face to look at him.

Her hair had come free of its plait and fell around her face like a shining curtain, and Harry was seized by the wholly unexpected desire to tuck it behind her ear. He realised belatedly, and with horror, that Parvati was crying, her eyes gleaming with tears that spilt in shimmering tracks over her dusky cheeks.

"Why are you crying?" he blurted, wincing as she fixed him with a glare.

"Didn't I just tell you to go away?"

"I'm not going to just leave you here," Harry sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose as he tried not to think about how very _pretty_ the angry flush that stained Parvati's cheeks was.

"Fine," she huffed, "I'm crying because I just made a ridiculous scene in front of twenty of my friends because of some stupid crush that isn't even – isn't even -" she hiccoughed, then lifted her hands to cover her face.

Without thinking, Harry reached out and took hold of her wrists, pulling her hands down and trying to look her in the eye, but she stared determinedly into her lap. "You have a crush?" he asked, "On _me?_ "

Parvati gave a low, humourless laugh that sounded nothing like her usual giggle, "Idiotic, I know. But, _Godric_ , when you asked me to the Yule Ball last year…" she bit her lip, then gave a little shrug, "Didn't you wonder why I didn't have a date? I'm pretty easy on the eye, Harry, I got asked plenty of times."

"Why didn't you have a date?" he breathed, and she gave that sad, terrible little laugh again.

"Because you hadn't asked anyone. And then when you _did_ , and it was _me_ …I wrote to my mum and everything, Harry," she said, finally looking at him. "I was _so_ excited, I even made Padma go with Ron…" This time her smile was lighter, but it was gone after a moment, "And then you spent the whole evening looking at _Cho_ bloody _Chang_ …who, by the way, is still completely hung up on Cedric, like, do not even go there, shitshow waiting to happen -"

She stopped talking when Harry placed his hand over her mouth, "Why did you call Hermione my girlfriend?" he asked.

Parvati rolled her eyes, "Because obviously she's not but the three of you, _honestly_ , it's infuriating, and I just…snapped."

Harry couldn't take his eyes from her, the way her skin caught the gold of the torches and _glowed_ ; the lovely bow of her lips. "What about the guy from Beauxbatons?" he asked quietly.

"Jerôme?" She gave another mocking little laugh, "I thought it might make you jealous. And then I ended up dating him for nine months." A tiny shudder. "So many letters, and his English was _so flowery_."

Harry chanced a little laugh and felt his heart stutter when she gave him a small smile. Almost immediately Parvati's face fell, and she twitched her arms free of his grip.

"Anyway," she muttered, pushing herself away from the wall, "Now you know, so please just…don't make fun of me."

She made to push past him at the same time that Harry tried to catch hold of her arm again, and somehow the two opposing motions resulted in them tumbling to the floor, Parvati on top of him, their noses almost touching.

"Uh," Harry said, staring into Parvati's dark, dark eyes. It seemed, given the proximity, given the fact that he could actually _feel_ her heart beating as fast as his where their chests were pressed together, like the thing to do might be to kiss her.

So he did.

 **OOOOO**

"Well it was obvious, really." Hermione said later, "But you do tend to be completely oblivious to these sorts of things."

* * *

 _For **electriques** who is awesome and just made a beautiful aesthetic for **How do you solve a problem like Ginevra** **?** which you can see on my tumblr. _

_To come: **Pervmione** ,_ _more (different) **Lunarry,** **G &T**, **Thuna** , and **Theomione**..._


	9. 9: Close Enough

_**Close Enough**_

 _Pairing: Percy x Hermione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

It started when she saw an ink stain at the base of his thumb. Or maybe it was the way the long bones of his hand seemed to arrange themselves around it.

It could have been the spray of freckles that danced across the back of his wrist and continued up the twining muscle of his forearm, surprisingly strong-looking.

Perhaps it was the neat way his cuff was rolled to his elbow, or the warm gold of his skin against the soft blue cotton.

There was a chance that it was the soft hollow at the base of his throat, or the sharp angle of his jaw, or the red-gold of his curls, or the bright intelligence of his clear blue eyes.

But really it had been the ink stain, and the cup of tea held in the hand that it decorated, and the smile of understanding on his face when he'd found her sniffling with frustration in the Ministry Records Room.

"Bureaucracy." His smile was small, rueful. She hadn't remembered his voice being that deep. "It breaks us all in the end."

Hermione had made a choking sound that might have been a laugh, and nodded gratefully at him when he handed her the mug.

"I actually spotted you over here about ten minutes ago," Percy had murmured, leaning in conspiratorially, "But I thought I'd arm myself with tea before interrupting."

The sparkle of humour in his eyes brought out his resemblance to the twins, though Percy had inherited Arthur's height. The sandy stubble on his chin caught the sunlight that drifted lazily down from the ceiling windows, and Hermione swallowed carefully before smiling at him.

Percy had blinked, looking momentarily disoriented, and then straightened up. "Anything I can help with?" he'd asked, and Hermione had remembered suddenly that he'd joined the Record Keepers a few years after the War.

"I can't find the reports from the last parley with the centaurs." She sipped the hot, strong tea and sighed gratefully. "We're meeting with their embassy in the New Forest in two days and I've no idea what was actually _said_ last time around…" her voice trailed away as she watched Percy frown in thought.

"Have you tried looking under H?" he said finally.

"H?" Hermione repeated, confused.

"For _Horse-men_. The last parley was Epping in 1797, right?" Percy had set off, threading his way between shelves, and Hermione followed him, not bothering to ask how he knew. It was Percy Weasley, after all.

After a few moments of walking he paused, squinting upwards, and then reached for a book on a high shelf, revealing the leanness of his torso as his shirt pulled tight against it. Hermione took a large gulp of tea.

"There," Percy said, handing her a slim volume. " _Parleys with the Horse-men, Seventeen Hundred and Ninety Seven_." He scrunched his mouth in distaste. "Not much for Creature respect, in the eighteenth century." He made an odd little movement of his shoulders that might have been a shrug, or might have been something else. "Ignorance can be just as damaging as intolerance." He gave her a rueful smile. "Best of luck with it."

Hermione watched him walk away, then belatedly called, "Percy!"

He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, and Hermione smiled, holding up both book and mug, "Thank you."

 **OOOOO**

"Granger!"

Malfoy's cool voice broke into her reverie and she looked up from the salad she'd been pushing around her plate. "Hmm?"

The pale wizard was frowning at her from across the table, "Where's your head today, Granger? I said I need you to feed me gossip before I shrivel and die of boredom."

Hermione rolled her eyes, hiding her smile behind her hand. She wasn't quite sure how she'd ended up adopting Malfoy as her lunch-buddy of choice, except that she'd gotten fed-up of watching him moping about alone and then suddenly they'd been eating together for the better part of five years. It turned out that when it wasn't spitting out slurs against her, she quite enjoyed his sharp tongue.

"Sweet _Salazar_ ," he said now, "That Clearwater girl's going to take someone's eye out with those. I bet Library Weasel wishes he still had glasses to protect himself."

Hermione followed his gaze over to where Penelope was talking to Percy in the cafeteria queue, her generous bosom, as Malfoy had observed, doing all that it could to escape the restraint of her dangerously low-cut robes. Percy was nodding at whatever Penelope was gesticulating enthusiastically about, though he seemed to be leaning away nervously.

A frown settled over Hermione's face, and she sniffed as she stabbed at a piece of lettuce. "She can wear what she likes," she said tartly, "It's a free country." She stuck the lettuce in her mouth and chewed, avoiding Malfoy's suddenly intent gaze.

He watched her for a few seconds, then a slow grin crept its way over his mouth. "You like Library Weasel," he snickered, sitting back in his chair to watch her blush. "Well, well, well."

"Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice biting with irritation, "If you don't shut up then I will force you to have a conversation about just how red it's possible for a person to go when talking to Harry Potter."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "That's low, Granger. And besides, I don't go red." He sniffed, and picked at an imaginary spot of dirt on one nail. "Red is for commoners such as yourself. I go _eglantine_."

"Oh my god," Hermione snorted, "You did _not_ _just -_ "

"Library Weasel," Malfoy said suddenly, his voice going cool and flat. "How perfectly delightful to see you."

Hermione swallowed her mouthful of lettuce and turned to look up at Percy, who was standing by her chair, frowning slightly at Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy," he said, voice as toneless as the blonde's. He looked down at Hermione, "Am I interrupting?"

"I was just leaving actually." Malfoy rose fluidly from his chair, tugging on his cuffs, and disappearing his tray with a lazy flick of his wand. "She's all yours." He winked at Hermione as he turned away, and she glared daggers at his retreating back.

A light touch on her shoulder brought her back to the situation at hand, and she looked up to meet Percy's startlingly blue eyes. _Like sea-glass_ , she thought madly, and felt herself beaming up at him like a fool.

Percy gave her the same oddly disoriented look that he had in the Records Room, then cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask how the meeting with the Centaurs went," he said, his voice sounding oddly rough.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, "It went well, thank you. And thank you for finding me that report – I'd have been lost without it. Actually," she leant below the table to rummage in her bag, "I've been meaning to return it."

When she straightened up with the volume in hand Percy was smiling at her in a soft, fond way that made her feel warm and cold all at once. He reached out a hand to tap the leather binding, fingers brushing over hers. "I'd offer to take it back for you," he said, "But you need to sign it in yourself, so shall I walk you down instead?"

Nodding, Hermione returned his smile, rising from her chair to stand a little awkwardly until Percy gave a little laugh, lifting the book and motioning with his hand as though to say _after you_.

They walked through the corridors that led to the Records Room, an odd silence between them that while not awkward was somehow – expectant. Hermione tried not to notice herself noticing the way her shoulder occasionally brushed Percy's arm.

Once they were at the Keeper's desk he set the book down on it and pulled over the large tome wherein all the loans were recorded, flicking through the pages until he found the right entry. "Here we are," he said softly, "Sign here."

Hermione took the quill from him, their fingers brushing again. She ignored the way her hand shook a little as she signed her name, watching the flourish glow gold before fading into the parchment.

"Well," Percy said after a moment, "I guess you're fr-"

"Mermaids!" Hermione said quickly, ignoring the way his eyebrows rose in surprise, "I need to find the…um…the family trees for the Mermaids in the Black Lake. For research."

He eyed her for a moment, then nodded gently. "This way," he said, tipping his head, and Hermione found herself following him through the stacks again.

"Mermaids…" Percy murmured to himself, tapping his hand absently against his cheek as he ran his eyes across the shelves. Hermione leaned back against the shelf behind him, and in a moment of brazenness cleared her throat.

"What about here?" she asked, reaching up to point at the shelf above her head. Percy glanced over at her, at the shelf she was indicating. Hermione smiled at him, watched his gaze sharpen before he took a step towards her.

"I don't know," he said slowly, "I think I'd have to have a closer look." He took another step and they were stood toe to toe, Hermione's back against the shelves.

"Close enough?" she whispered, tipping her face up towards his.

"Almost," Percy murmured, his mouth brushing the word over hers.

* * *

 _For lovely, lovely **Pearls of Wimsey**_. _Every time I get a notification from you it fills me with joy, so I hope this fits the bill of "Draco and Hermione friendship in a PercyxHermione AU, at least ten years after the War."_

 _I'm a little busier than I'd like at the moment so apologies if I haven't made it to your request yet - I'm a bit behind but I will get to you, and I'm still accepting requests as long as you're content to wait!_


	10. 10: Kitchen

**_Kitchen_**

 _Pairing: Thuna_

 _Universe: Cause Universe (see It is the Cause, My Soul/The Seekers)_

 _Rating: M_

* * *

Harry and Ginny were in the library at 17 Diagon Alley, sifting through the collection of banned and arcane books, when the afternoon peace was shattered by an unearthly scream.

Without a word they were both scrambling downstairs to the kitchen, hands on their wands, Harry bursting through as Ginny covered him, following close enough behind that when Harry stopped suddenly she ran clean into his back.

"Er…"

Ginny popped her head over Harry's shoulder, guffawing loudly when she saw what had brought him up short.

Theo and Luna were on the kitchen floor, caught in a tangle of naked limbs. From this angle Ginny could see half of one of Luna's breasts, the other caught in Theo's hand. Their bodies were pressed close from the stomach down, but Luna's pale skin was flushed enough that it didn't take a genius to work out what was going on.

"Bloody hell, Theo," Harry muttered, "What were you doing to her?"

Instead of answering Theo smiled vaguely, dropping his eyes slowly from Harry's to Luna's to look expectantly at her.

Trapped underneath him Luna huffed a sigh, tipping her head backward to glare and roll her eyes at the pair of them in the doorway. Ginny clapped a hand to her mouth as she realised what was going on.

"Merlin's tits. He means you, airhead," Luna said, her voice an uncharacteristically impatient bite as she looked back at Theo.

"Oh," Theo said, "Oh, of course. Sorry Harry." Theo smiled broadly up at them, and Ginny felt Harry shift uneasily beside her.

"Theo? Is Luna OK?"

"I'm just fucking _peachy_ , thanks." The words sounded wrong in Luna's soft voice, and Ginny started giggling, unable to help herself.

"What-" said Harry, glancing between the girls and Theo, who was returning Luna's scowl with a gentle smile that might just have passed for a smirk under the right light.

Ginny watched as the pieces came together, and Harry's face finally screwed up in annoyance. "For Godric's sake you two," he said, turning to march out of the kitchen. "If you're going to experiment with Polyjuice," he called from the hallway, "At least do it somewhere where people don't have to eat."

* * *

 _For **paffrin**_ _, who basically gave me free reign :D. Short and er...sweet?_


	11. 11: Soccer

_**Soccer**_

 _Pairing: Gin'n'Tonic_

 _Universe: Non-magical University!AU_

 _Rating: M_

* * *

"Look out!" Ginny yelled, as the ball went sailing over the crossbar towards the stands, where a dark-haired man sat with his head bent over a book. He looked up at her shout, just in time for the ball to hit him in the face.

Hard.

Ginny winced as he raised his hand to his face, scowling as his fingers came away bloodstained.

"Oh shit," Angelina said as she came to a halt beside her. "Did you just break Tom Riddle's nose?"

Ginny shrugged, shifting uncomfortably as she watched Tom get slowly to his feet. She hadn't meant to get him.

She _hadn't_.

He cast one dark look down towards the pitch before he picked his way up the stairs and disappeared.

"You're in trouble," Angelina said, making no effort to hide her laughter.

"Fuck off," Ginny said, kicking petulantly at the turf.

"Language," Angelina smirked, "Don't let Hooch hear you, or you'll get banned again."

Ginny muttered something under her breath that would _definitely_ have resulted in Hooch banning her, and Angelina laughed as she turned to jog back up the field.

They had the pitch for another hour, and Ginny cruised her way through the drills, her mind only half on the game.

She'd been furious with him for being there. Weeks of barely speaking to her, and then he turned up at her soccer practice. It was so fucking unfair how he thought he could just do that.

He'd deserved it, she told herself. He was an arsehole, and he deserved it.

She smiled vaguely at some joke that Alicia made as they headed back towards the changing rooms, agreed to meet up with Padma and exchange lecture notes later that week, and then pulled a book from her bag as she waited for a shower to free up.

The changing room emptied around her as her teammates gradually trickled away to tutorials, or lectures, or lunch plans, until suddenly Ginny looked up and realised that she was alone.

She shoved her book back into her bag, stripping off her now-clammy kit and wrapping herself in her towel. She grabbed her washbag and made her way towards the showers.

Thankfully there was still hot water, and Ginny lathered her hair up, sighing with relief as the heat started to work on the tension in her shoulders. She turned to face the spray, leant her head back, and hit something solid.

He slipped his hand over her mouth, pulling her against him as his other hand snaked over her hip. Ginny gasped against his fingers, trying to wriggle herself free, but his grip was too tight.

The cotton of his shirt stuck to her wet skin. She could smell the blood on his face.

"Did you think that was funny?" he whispered.

His hand twitched itself lower on her belly, and Ginny pushed up on her tiptoes, arching into him.

"Answer me," he snarled, biting her earlobe.

"Yes," Ginny gasped, "Yes I did."

Tom made a growling sound, and suddenly he was pushing her against the wall, the cool tile shocking against her heated skin. The water was still on, spilling over Tom's head and down across Ginny's cheek as she turned her face and bit at his lip.

She reached around to him, fingers quick and practised as she undid his fly, and then Tom was shimmying his jeans down his thighs and his rock-hard length was against her.

Ginny made to turn towards him, but found that she was pinned. "No," Tom said simply, before he thrust roughly into her from behind.

She gave a gasp, shocked and furious and _oh God, yes_.

Tom was whispering terrible things in her ear, threats and curses and _if you ever_ _do that again_ and Ginny could only moan deep in her throat, reaching back and curling her hands in his hair and _I won't, I won't, I will, more, please_.

He twisted her long hair into a rope around his fist, yanking her head back and kissing her as he rubbed her clit rhythmically and Ginny felt herself tighten around him, felt the tension in her nerves explode as she came with a shout into his mouth.

Tom thrust into her twice more then gave a shuddering groan and leant his head forward over her shoulder to rest against the tile.

"Are we done fighting now?" he said quietly, when they both had their breath back.

"If you want," Ginny replied.

She felt him shift against her, felt his smile against her cheek. "I don't even remember what it was about."

Ginny huffed a laugh, turned her head and flicked her tongue over the dried blood that still stained his upper lip. "I said you wouldn't know good soccer if it hit you in the face."

* * *

 _For **EssTheDreamer** who is a total sweetpea. Sorry for the hold-up on this!_


	12. 12: Unsaid

_**Unsaid**_

 _Pairing: Sirimione_

 _Universe: Post-DH, EWE, Sirius alive_

 _Rating:_ _T (language)_

* * *

"You were in love with him," she said. Not a question.

Sirius turned his moon-pale eyes to hers. "I was, yes," he smiled wryly, "but then, so was everyone."

"What do you mean?"

Sirius's smile was soft, and a little sad, his gaze turning faraway as he spoke. "Remus was...he was just so wonderful to be around. He made everything lighter just by being there." He rubbed at the worn spot on the knee of his jeans, "I think he'd been so lonely for so long that when he finally had friends he just gave it everything. How could you not fall in love with that?"

It was funny, Hermione thought, how easily he could have been describing Harry.

Sirius looked at her then, searched her face for a moment. "Lily loved him before James," he said slowly. "I loved him. Stars, Pete loved him and it fucking tore him apart." He took a ragged breath, "Even James was a bit in love with him, and he was the most unironically heterosexual person ever to walk the earth."

Hermione wasn't sure when she'd started crying, realised it only when Sirius reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek.

"You were in love with him too," he said. Not a question.

"A little, yes," she whispered.

 _Not like I am with you_ hung on the air between them, and Sirius blinked slowly, lazily trailing his fingers from her cheek to cup her jaw as he leant in and pressed his lips to hers.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** This is dedicated to my best friend, who is sick and lets me read these to her because she can't escape. Mwahahaha. To come: more (different) **Lunarry** , **Theomione**._


	13. 13: Smart Mouth

**Smart Mouth**

 _Pairing: Dramione  
_

 _Universe:_ _Post-DH, EWE_

 _Rating: T (language)_

* * *

They'd come to him in the darkness of the cells, voices sweet and lilting.

 _Don't bargain with the fey. They cannot lie, but they will not tell the truth_.

What would you give, Little Dragon, for your freedom, for your life?

 _I have nothing to give._

You have your words, Little Dragon, will you give us those?

 _For what they're worth_.

 **OOOOO**

She'd come to watch from the public gallery, feeling at once fiercely proud of Harry for what he was doing and full of trepidation at the thought of seeing Malfoy again.

The blonde sat in the chair, face upturned towards the Chief Warlock. His usually neat hair was dishevelled, but his back was straight and his eyes still held the cool arrogance that she remembered.

Unsurprisingly, given Harry's involvement, the Wizengamot found Malfoy innocent of everything but being misled by his father's example. Hermione caught a fleeting glimpse of Harry's relieved smile, but then there was an odd swelling sensation in the air of the room, and a noise like fluttering wings.

Searing heat grazed past her shoulder – a curse, she'd thought, but no curse that she knew. Malfoy's eyes went wide as _something_ hit his chest in an explosion of sickly yellow sparks. He made a terrible gagging sound and Hermione barely registered the commotion as people tried to run from the room and the Aurors attempted to keep order.

She was too busy watching Malfoy's hands rise to his throat, his eyes widening in horror as his mouth worked to form words, though not a sound escaped his lips.

 **OOOOO**

At first when they'd put him to work with her in the DRCMC Hermione had protested, but Kingsley had given her a long look and she had quieted.

"You've more paperwork than any other department," the Minister had reasoned, "And it's all he's really good for."

It was true that without his voice Malfoy couldn't do a great deal else. Words, for a wizard, were after all much of what they did. But he was a diligent researcher, fastidious about ensuring the forms were filled out correctly, and soon Hermione came to rely on his silent presence.

He would look at her at the end of a long day, tip his head to one side and raise an eyebrow, and she knew it meant, _drink?_

A touch on her shoulder. _I've found something_.

His fingers on the back of her hand, stilling hers. _You're tired, let me do it._

 **OOOOO**

He developed a way of being silent that could at times be inescapably loud. When Cormac came in to ask her out _again_ Draco's eyes tracked him around the room. _Get the fuck out_.

She smiled at him once the other man had gone. She'd noticed that she spoke less now; that as she had come to understand his wordless language she had started to speak it back to him.

Her wand out, locking the door to the small office. _I don't want us to be disturbed_.

His eyes, narrow and watchful, mouth slightly open. _What are you doing?_

Her steps towards him, slow but purposeful. _What do you think I'm doing?_

His hand holding her waist, pulling her in so that she straddled him in his chair. _Closer_.

Her mouth on his, hot and wanting. _Yes?_

His fingers in her hair. _Yes_.

Her, a moan as his tongue slipped across hers. _Draco_.

Him, a hoarse whisper as they finally broke apart, staring into one another's eyes. "Hermione."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** This was written as part of the collection of Dramione stories being assembled for **LadiePhoenix007** \- lots of love!_


	14. 14: Hypnotist

_**Hypnotist**_

 _Pairing: Lunarry  
_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE, furious denial of TCC_

 _Rating: T_

* * *

"Well," Harry muttered, "that was different." Luna made a non-committal humming sound from somewhere around his shoulder level, and he glanced down at her. Her hair shone in the artificial light of the streetlamps as they made their way slowly down a Highbury side-street.

When Seamus had said that he was setting up a wizarding theatre above the pub that he and Dean owned in Islington Harry had been sceptical, but two years later they'd had to apply for their third magical extension as demand continued to outstrip the number of seats they were able to make available for every performance.

Luna had owled that morning to say that her father had been called away to investigate a possible blibbertiwing sighting in Cork and would he like to come with her to see this hypnotist that everyone was on about?

Harry had heard all about The Magnificent Moira from Dean when he'd stopped into The Galleon with Ron a couple of weeks previously, and since Luna had managed to catch him on a rare evening off when he didn't have plans, he happily agreed to accompany her.

As it was, he couldn't say that he'd _enjoyed_ the evening all that much. In fact, he had found Moira oddly menacing. Her pale hands had moved through the air like insects, her eyes glinting a disturbing shade of violet. Sometimes, in the right light, it had looked as though there were three women on stage, not one.

When she had spoken her voice had been a silken whisper, but it was with a vaguely unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that Harry realised he couldn't remember anything that she'd actually said.

"Godric," he groaned, shoving his fingers through his hair, "Give me a good quidditch match any time."

He wasn't sure how he went from walking companionably side-by-side with Luna to being shoved up against a brick wall by her, but his bark of surprise was caught in the blonde's mouth as she rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Harry's hand rose without conscious thought to cup the soft angle of her jaw where it met her neck, but when Luna's deft fingers found their way to his belt buckle he gave a little yelp and twisted himself away.

"What was that?" he asked weakly, breathing hard and trying to ignore the way that his mouth now tasted of strawberries and fresh mint.

Luna had raised her fingers to her lips, a faint crease appearing between her brows. "I don't know," she said slowly. Harry noted that her expression was not so much concerned as thoughtful, realised as he did so that they were still stood close together.

Her skin had been so soft against his palm.

"What did you say, right before?" Luna asked, her pale eyes fixing upon him and cutting off his train of thought. Harry blushed under her gaze and thanked whatever powers may be that it was too dark to see.

"I said…I think I said I'd rather watch quidditch than – _mmf_!"

Luna had launched herself at him again, her fingers catching at the soft cotton of his t-shirt as she licked her tongue into his mouth. Harry had looped an arm around her waist before he'd quite realised what he was doing, and Luna had stepped one foot between his legs, was grinding against his thigh as she made a lovely moaning sound.

"Fuck," Harry whispered, wrenching his head back. "What the fuck?"

Luna cocked her head curiously, colour high in her cheeks, her hands resting lightly on his biceps. "You don't like it?" she asked softly.

"No," Harry said, realising only as he spoke that he was telling the truth, "No, I like it, but you're not – it's – that hypnotist woman," he growled. "It's when I say quidditch isn't it – "

Admittedly, he should have thought harder about what he was saying.

"But it's not your choice," he gasped when they next came up for air, "You're just, it's like a _compulsion_ , I'm _making_ you," he said, horrified at the thought, but Luna shook her head.

"No," she said, "I want to. I - she said - I don't think it would work if I didn't." Her eyes narrowed slightly, "What was she called, the hypnotist?"

"Moira," Harry said slowly, "The Magnificent Moira."

Luna hummed softly. "Unusual," she said, "For them to intervene directly." She reached up a hand and ghosted her fingers from his scar, to his temple, to his chin. "You always were special though, Harry."

It occurred to him to ask what she was on about, but at the look in her eyes he felt an odd little lurch somewhere in his chest area, and hesitantly he bent his face to hers, thrilled when her mouth opened easily to him, when she reached her arms up to wrap them around his neck.

* * *

 _For **mrdbznarutofan** who requested "Harry x Luna, walking back from a hypnotist show, where the hypnotist left Luna some posthypnotic suggestions." Sorry for the hold up!_

 _The name Moira comes from_ _Μοῖρα_ ι _, or The Fates, in Ancient Greek._


	15. 15: Flowers

**Flowers**

 _Pairing: Theomione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts Dystopian AU_

 _Rating: M - hanky panky_

* * *

It was a dark joke, a throwback to the days when they had _needed_ to wear masks. Theo felt his mouth twist with distaste as he watched the dancers whirling in their dark robes. The elf wine tasted bitter on his tongue.

He spotted her as soon as she entered the room, drawing the moonlight with her like a silver veil across her hair.

 _I know you_ , he thought – the way that she moved, the straight line of her shoulders under the shimmering fabric of her dress.

He hardly dared to believe that it was her, that she had come back.

 _I know you._

 **OOOOO**

She could feel the thrill of moving unnoticed through the crowd, just another hidden face. A house-elf handed her a glass of something that fizzed and sparkled, iridescent bubbles spinning through the white-gold liquid.

Just one, she thought to herself, just one won't hurt.

She had forgotten how it felt to have the night sky on her skin and elf wine in her veins, to have men's eyes follow her across a crowded room.

The softness had been pared from her woman's body, but the guipure gown skimmed the slim muscle born of years on the run.

Heads turned as she passed, eyes glittering behind silver masks. She smiled gently, confident behind her own disguise, and then a hand caught her about the waist, fingers fitting into the crevices between her ribs as he manoeuvred her deftly onto the dancefloor.

He dipped his head, his breath tickling the spot where her jaw met her neck, and Hermione's heart leapt into her mouth at the scent of him. Woodsmoke and musk sharpened with sage.

"You're here," he breathed, lips brushing her ear.

 **OOOOO**

She'd been a girl the last time that he had seen her face, stained with blood and ashes. An accidental meeting of their eyes across the Great Hall as the Dark Lord screamed his triumph, before Weasley grabbed her hand and they blinked out of view.

Now her smile glittered at him, teeth white as the pearls on her mask, and her skin was burnished by the candlelight as he twirled her across the polished floorboards. Her dress was silk and lace, so fine under his hand that he could feel the warmth of her through it. As he spun her in his arms she met his gaze, dark eyes gleaming.

Woman's eyes, he thought, although she wore the flowers of a girl in her hair. Lilies and daisies wound together.

A single peony twined into the band, a thistle blade catching its soft petals.

Peony for honour, wealth, and beauty. Thistle for nobility.

Peony for shame. Thistle for defiance.

 _Mudblood._

His hand tightened on hers and he felt the catch in her breath where he held her tight against him

 **OOOOO**

 _Get close_ , they'd said, _G_ _et close - and find out what you can_.

 _How close is too close?_ she wondered, as he peeled the dress from her shoulders, kisses pursuing the fabric as it slipped down her spine.

It occurred to her that she would have to steal some clothes from him in the morning as her gown melted into spider silk and spent wishes. His fingers at the top of her thigh, his thumb rubbing tiny, teasing circles over her clit, made it hard to care.

His lips grazed her nipple and Hermione heard herself moan, lifted her hand to twist her fingers into his chestnut hair as he dipped his mouth lower, lower, lower.

 **OOOOO**

"Why did you come?" he murmured, tongue tracing the morning sunlight across her scapula.

"To see you."

Her voice came out in a whisper, but she turned and rubbed her nose against his, pressing herself to him. Lip to lip, hip to hip. The insistence of bare skin, though both wore their masks still; deliberate blindness the last defence against the all-seeing Dark Lord.

"And?" he prompted.

He longed to run his eyes across the uninterrupted planes of her face.

"I love you," she said softly, her hands cradling his sharp cheeks. "Give me what you can?"

He pressed his wand to his temple, lifting the silvery thread and then placing it against hers. She blinked her eyes closed, and even behind the mask he saw the twitch of pain in her face as she watched the memory.

"I love you," he breathed, biting the words into the skin at the side of her neck.

"I'll see you again soon," she said, her mouth a promise against his, the slip of her finger across the angle of his jaw an assurance.

He helped her to secure the spindly, impossible heels around her ankles, met her kiss with his when she bent to him.

And then she was gone, and all Theo could do was watch, and wait, dreaming of the feel of her against him.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I promised lovely **KatherinePond** some post-war Theomione angst a while ago, and this came together when **olivieblake** picked me an aesthetic called "Masque" (designed by **PhoenixTwins** ) for the Wordsmiths & Betas Aesthetics Drabble challenge. I'll post it with the image on tumblr!_


	16. 16: Love is Murder

**_Love is Murder_**

 _Pairing: Drarry_

 _Universe: DH divergent, post-Hogwarts dystopian AU_

 _Rating: M (language, gentle smut)_

* * *

He was at Gringotts for his annual meeting to go over the Estate accounts. It was usually deathly boring; the profits varied little from year to year, though the running costs had dropped significantly since the forced conscription for land work of Muggleborn witches and wizards.

Draco's mouth thinned at the thought. He tried to ensure that conditions on the Malfoy estate were adequate, and his conscripts had a much better life than many others, but the knowledge that his property was kept running by slaves left an ashen taste in his mouth. He tugged at his cuffs, frowning at the large clock on the wall of the bank's cavernous main room.

He had been waiting for ten minutes, which meant that Baxrex was five minutes late. Generally speaking, one did not keep members of the Dark Lord's trusted inner circle waiting. Generally speaking, one did not keep the head of the House of Malfoy waiting either.

Just as Draco was considering minutely clearing his throat to indicate his displeasure, the main doors to the bank exploded and a cloud of bright red smoke poured into the room.

Thrown to the floor by the force of the blast, Draco lifted his ringing head and stared towards the doorway in shock. Gradually figures emerged from the smoke - figures robed in red, their lower faces hidden behind golden scarves.

The Order of the Phoenix.

It had been months of nothing, nary a whisper of them, and the upper echelons of the former Death Eaters, now the High Ministerial Committee, had started to believe that the Order was finished. Rumours swirled that Potter had finally been killed, that he had given up and somehow fled the country with the last of his ragtag band of anarchists and criminals.

Draco had hoped, wildly, behind his mask of indifference, that it was not true.

As he hauled himself upright to lean against the wall, one of the red-robed figures stepped forward. A woman, small and slim, with wild curls escaping from under the hood of her cloak. _Granger_. She held her wand to her throat, and then spoke.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Magical Beings -"

 _Always so fucking politically correct,_ Draco thought to himself.

"May I present, the Boy Who Lived!"

Another figure stepped forward, pulling his hood and scarf off as he did so. Even had he left his face covered Draco would have recognised Potter anywhere. He had learned the broadness of those shoulders, the trim height of him, through years of study when they had been at school.

Potter moved his gaze slowly around the room, green as grass, green as anything, green as the Killing Curse -

Draco's heart stuttered when those green eyes landed on him, and Potter smiled a small and wicked smile before he looked away and opened his mouth.

"Everyone! This -" he waved an arm at the group gathered behind him "- is the Order of the Phoenix, and _this_ , is a bank robbery."

He produced his wand impossibly fast, blasting a hole directly into the floor, and then flicking it in what Draco recognised as a summoning charm. Around Potter the other Order members were shooting _incarcerous_ spells at everyone in the room, and Draco moved without thinking, bolting across the floor to where Potter stood, his hand outstretched for the broom that came shooting through the rubble of the entrance.

By some miracle, Draco reached Potter just in time to swing himself onto the broom behind him and cling on as they shot into the depths beneath the bank.

When he had first wrapped his arms around him he had felt Potter jerk in surprise, but if he said anything then it was lost to the cool, subterranean air that whistled past their faces. Potter's spell hadn't just blasted a hole in the floor, Draco realised, it had kept burrowing down, carving a tunnel that led all the way to the vaults.

Finally, Potter pulled up, taking a moment to shove Draco unceremoniously off the broom before making his own, more graceful dismount.

"What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?" he said. "If you want to play Mouldy's tragic little hero you could have just stayed up in the hall."

"Take me with you." The words were out before he'd even really thought about them, but Draco realised as he blurted them that he meant it. That he was _desperate_ to escape the horror of being one of the Dark Lord's chosen few.

Potter stared at him for a beat, then turned abruptly on his heel, "I don't have time for -"

"I can help you," Draco said, catching the other man's arm and hauling him round to face him. "I can help you to defeat him."

He noticed how close they were standing and backed up a step, swallowing, though he didn't release his grip on Potter's arm.

Potter, whose beautiful bottle-green, deadly-green eyes were searching his own in confusion. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked finally, quietly.

"Because he's fucking awful, and I literally cannot do this one moment longer." Draco bit the words out, years of simmering fear, anger and resentment making his voice almost a hiss.

There was a beat of silence, and then Potter nodded. "Alright then." He grinned, "Nice to have you on board. Any idea where Riddle might have hidden Helga Hufflepuff's cup?"

 **OOOOO**

He sat with Weasley and Thomas as they listened to Potter and Granger duke it out in the next room.

" _He can't be trusted, you have actually lost your fucking mind -"_

" _Just ASK HIM Hermione, you'd believe him if you just ASKED -"_

" _He's a snake! Once a snake, always a snake, and a snake with the bloody DARK MARK -"_

 _"He gave me all the locations for the rest of the fucking horcruxes, and he got the cup out of the Lestrange vault -"_

 _"He nearly got us all KILLED IN THE -"_

 _"The dragon was his idea! We WOULD all have been killed without him -"_

"Do you want some soup?" Weasley said quietly, seemingly resigned to it being a long evening of screaming.

"Soup?" Draco asked, nose wrinkling slightly.

"Yeah," Thomas sighed, "It's pretty much all Hermione can make, so whenever she's on cooking duty we're absolutely drowning in soup."

"A plethora of soup," Weasley muttered darkly, rising from the table to start pulling bowls out of the kitchen cupboard.

 **OOOOO**

Granger had conceded that he be allowed to stay after Draco swore, under a combination of veritaserum and a judiciously light but nevertheless horrifying application of the Cruciatus curse, that he wanted to help. She'd then started demanding he make an Unbreakable Vow, but Potter had put his foot down at that.

"We all volunteered for this, and so did he," he'd said. "If he betrays us, I'll kill him myself." His eyes had flashed as he'd spoken, like a curse, like a promise, and Draco felt himself shudder with desire.

 **OOOOO**

He'd been there over a week, listening to them outline their plans to quietly break into wizarding houses, take what they need, and disappear without leaving any evidence, when he finally piped up. "Why are you thinking so small?"

Granger glared at him from the other side of the table, but he felt Potter shift beside him, "What do you mean?"

Draco shrugged, "Well, you made headlines when you broke into Gringotts. You got attention. The Dark Lord upped the price on each of your heads by ten thousand galleons."

"What's your point, _Malfoy_?" Granger growled.

"You gave yourselves a voice again," he said slowly. "You need to start sending messages with what you do - make everyone realise that you are lot are here to _fuck shit up_ , and if you go down you're going down swinging."

He smiled humourlessly, "If those who are oppressed under the current regime think there's no hope of change, then they won't do anything about it. When you get away with stuff like that -" he pointed to the front page tacked to the wall, from the day after the Gringott's heist, where a photo showed a gigantic dragon carrying several Order members flapping after the small dot of the broom carrying him and Ha - Potter. Him and Potter, away into a glowing sunset.

 _ORDER OF THE PHOENIX STAGES AUDACIOUS ROBBERY AT GRINGOTTS, KIDNAPS LORD MALFOY._

"- Then people will start to think that it is worth it to face up to the Dark Lord. You've got to make everything you do say _fight me_."

Draco closed his mouth, and looked around the various faces gathered at the table. Most looked thoughtful, a couple surprised. Granger was giving him a calculating look as though he was a Grindylow that had just recited a detailed history of the Goblin Wars.

"Well, I think that's brilliant," Potter said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Draco ducked his head to hide his smile of pleasure. "Fight me," Potter went on, his voice taking on a musing tone. "What would you suggest first?"

 **OOOOO**

Potter burst into his room two days later, cheeks flushed from cold and eyes gleaming, and flung a copy of _The Evening Prophet_ onto Draco's legs where he was sat on the bed.

"It worked perfectly." His grin was wide enough to split his face in two. "You're frighteningly clever, Draco."

 _TEN-MILLION GALLEON RANSOM DEMANDED FOR LORD MALFOY_ the headline screamed. Underneath, flashbulbs lit Voldemort's pale, serpentine features as he gave a press conference in the Ministry atrium.

Draco scanned the article quickly - _Lord Voldemort has said the Ministry will take time_ \- _Malfoy estate plunged into disarray by disappearance of family head - demand received by muggle 'air mail order' from Paris, where the French Ministry of Magic is already cooperating with - a single finger, confirmed by Healers at St Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Accidents to be that of Lord Draco Malfoy -_

He stopped reading, looking queasily at his hand. A clever admixture of Skele-gro, blood-replenishing potion and essence of dittany had ensured they had managed to regrow the finger, but it had been rather unpleasant all round.

"Did you read the bit at the end?" Potter asked eagerly, coming to sit beside him on the bed and peering over his shoulder. Draco shook his head, shifting a little uncomfortably at the other man's proximity. He could feel Potter's breath on his cheek as he read the final paragraphs.

 _Sources inside the Ministry have confirmed that the so-called Order of the Phoenix have threatened to return Lord Malfoy in "pieces small enough to fit in Honeydukes boxes." The Evening Prophet can exclusively reveal that a note from the notorious anarchist organisation was delivered to our offices this afternoon, signed by none other than Boy Who Lived and Undesirable Number One, Harry Potter._

 _The note, amidst a variety of crude and disgusting threats, stated the following: "The Order of the Phoenix means business, and our business will be the defeat of Lord Voldemort and his puppet Ministry. Just you wait."_

 _In light of this apparent intention by the Order to step their criminal activities up to include all-out rebellion, citizens of Wizarding Britain are advised to be vigilant and report any possible anti-establishment activity to the Department for Magical Law Enforcement._

"They really went for it, didn't they?" Draco murmured, aware of the press of warmth from the man at his side.

"They really did," Potter said quietly, lifting his hand to cup Draco's jaw and turn his face towards his.

Potter's lips were warm, insistent, and demanding on his own, and Draco was so surprised that he jerked himself backwards out of his grasp.

"Wh- what are you doing?" he spluttered.

Eyes narrowed, Potter sat back slightly. "I thought that was what you wanted?"

As often happened around Potter, Draco's mouth spoke without prior consultation with his brain: "Of course I do, but you - you don't - me?" he asked finally, desperately.

"You," Potter said simply, catching Draco's mouth with his own once more, pushing him back onto the bed as he moved on top, pressing his whole body, the whole - _Oh Gods,_ Draco thought - length of himself against the blond wizard.

Potter kissed him until he saw stars, and then drew back, leaving Draco panting breathlessly. "If this," he gasped finally, blushing under Potter's studying gaze, "If this is just about getting me to suck your dick, then I won't be overly thrilled."

"Oh, it's not," Potter said, smiling at him again as his hands moved to start undoing Draco's trousers. "Believe me."

"Shit," Draco whispered, his head dropping back to the pillows, "You're mildly terrifying."

"I'm mildly terrifying," Potter repeated, dipping his mouth to lick Draco's cock from base to tip, eliciting a startled groan from the other man. "You don't seem to mind."

 **OOOOO**

 _EAR OF LORD MALFOY RECEIVED IN HONEYDUKE'S BOX; EMERGENCY MEETING OF THE HIGH MINISTERIAL COMMITTEE CALLED_

 _RIOT ON THE MALFOY ESTATE; MUGGLEBORN SERFS RISE UP AND SEIZE CONTROL; AURORS CURRENTLY UNABLE TO PENETRATE WARDS, SUSPECT LORD MALFOY BEING FORCED TO MAINTAIN AGAINST HIS WILL_

 _LORD MALFOY SPOTTED WITH UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE DURING MINISTRY RAID - TURN TO PAGE 2 FOR EXPLANATION OF THE MUDBLOOD DISEASE KNOWN AS "STOCKHOLM SYNDROME"_

 **OOOOO**

"I'm trying to persuade him to go in as a spy on the Rowle estate," Draco said, leafing through the various pieces of correspondence arranged across the large desk in his study at Malfoy Manor. "But I don't think he's having it."

"Threaten his mmmfff" Harry said, the last part of the sentence lost as he took a huge bite of pizza.

"I'm sorry, Potter," Draco said silkily, "Have I not asked you before not to eat in here? And did you say threaten his _kid_?"

"Oh fucking hell." Harry swallowed his mouthful. "Look, I can't eat downstairs because Hermione made soup again and it's totally irredeemable. Anyway," he went on, "I said threaten his life, Malfoy, not his kid." Harry rolled his eyes, "I'm not a _complete_ psychopath."

"Just a partial one," Draco observed drily, standing from his desk and frowning at the letters in his hand.

"It's the part you like though," Harry grinned, catching Draco round the waist as he passed and pulling him into the armchair with him.

"I have stuff to do," Draco whispered against his mouth, "Granger will kill me if I don't manage to get at least one spy in one of the old estates before the end of the week, and besides, you're all...pizza-ey."

"Like that's ever stopped you before," the dark-haired wizard said, as Draco gave in and slipped his hands under Harry's faded Cannons t-shirt to find the hard muscle beneath.

 **OOOOO**

 _LORD VOLDEMORT PERSONALLY EXECUTES LEADERS OF MUGGLEBORN REBELLION ON MULCIBER ESTATE; LORD MULCIBER DEMOTED FROM HIGH MINISTERIAL COMMITTEE_

 _LORD VOLDEMORT HITS BOY WHO LIVED WITH KILLING CURSE; ORDER OF THE PHOENIX REPUTEDLY IN DISARRAY_

 **OOOOO**

"I don't know how I survived again either, but I _did_ , and I want to see him _dead_ , I want to watch him _die_ , and I want him to know that I _killed_ him, that he's trapped in this endless cycle of fuckery because I fucking _put him there_."

"Shitting Merlin." Draco wrapped his hands around Harry's biceps, pressed his mouth to Harry's cheek. "Just, try and calm down OK?" He attempted a mischievous smile, though he was sure that the worry remained in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if one day you're just going to snap and murder _me_?"

Harry gave him a narrow-eyed glare, "Shut the fuck up." He sighed, leaning his forehead against Draco's, and ghosting his lips across his cheekbone to his ear, "I would murder _for_ you, Malfoy," Harry whispered, as he started unbuttoning the pale-haired man's shirt. "It's very different."

 **OOOOO**

"What in Merlin's name is this, Malfoy? You're actually fucking working _with_ Potter?" Avery shouted, his refined features made ugly by his sneer.

"Actually fucking, actually working with, yes to all the above," Draco said, twirling his wand idly as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Harry in the Ministry atrium. The High Ministerial Committee were ranged behind Voldemort, whose face was twisted with anger.

"Is this your type then, _Harry Potter?_ " The snake-featured wizard spat. "A wretched blood-traitor?"

"Hmm," Harry mused, eyeing Draco. "I'd say my type is elegant with an edge of 'might fuck you up'."

Draco snorted beside him, "So, you then?"

"Yes," Harry rolled his eyes, " _I_ am a hopeless narcissist. But we're not here to talk about me." He turned a cold smile onto the wizards assembled before them, facing off against the Order. "We're here to see you fucking _die_ , Tom Riddle, and I swear," sweeping his eyes across the Death Eaters once more, "I will murder every last one of you that gets in my way."

Voldemort's mouth stretched horribly, and his hissing, terrible laugh filled the room. "You cannot defeat me _boy_ , I have mastered the secrets of death!"

"Secrets like horcruxes?" Harry asked blithely, "Because, yeah, we worked that one out."

The smile on Voldemort's face faltered, "No - no you cannot have -"

"Oh but we have," Draco said smoothly. He paused, glancing at Harry. "Want me to take the snake?"

"Much obliged," Harry replied, raising his wand.

 **OOOOO**

Harry gripped his hand tightly when he walked up beside him, and they both stared down at the body. "He was just a man," the dark-haired wizard said softly. "Just a man who wanted too much, and went too far to get it."

"He was a violent, sociopathic dictator who oversaw a reign of terror."

"Yeah," Harry said. There was a pause, and then he cocked his head, "Can you imagine how much worse he might have been if he'd had to eat Hermione's soup for the past four years?"

Draco laughed, startling himself, "You little _dick_ , Potter."

"Oi!" Harry said, "Less of the little."

"Fine," Draco said, trailing his fingers up Harry's arm to rest against the back of his neck, "You great, big, Dark-Lord murdering dick."

"Better," Harry smiled, leaning into Draco's kiss.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : This particularly mad little thing was written for **olivieblake** and in celebration of salivie, because #loveismurder_


	17. 17: Gambit

_**Gambit**_

 _Pairing: Dumbletrix (yes)_

 _Universe: First wizarding war AU_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

She came back in high summer, tripping merrily across the wards, smiling and winking and filled to the brim with trouble.

"What are you doing here, Miss Black?" he asked when he found her down by the Great Lake. Her pale limbs were sprawled in the dappled shade of a Wiggentree and her dark green robes were hitched higher than was decent.

"Waiting for adventure to stumble across me, sir." She pouted prettily at him, propped herself up on her elbows. "How does that sound to you?"

He peered down his nose at her, trying to keep his eyes on her face. Bellatrix grinned, stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and curled it to touch her upper lip. When he didn't say anything she lay back down, lifting her arms above her head so that her robes crept upward, exposing another couple of inches of perfect, creamy thigh.

Albus cleared his throat. "Miss Black," he began, "I really don't think -"

"Why think at all, Professor?" she murmured, sitting up and then getting to her feet. "In my estimation it's somewhat overrated."

She crossed her arms, leaned them against his chest. "I have a secret to tell you," she murmured, tipping her head back so that her dark, hooded eyes peeped up at him from beneath her sooty lashes.

"A secret?" he asked, curling his hands into fists to stop himself touching her. _Eighteen years old_ he told himself. _Wildly inappropriate_.

"What do you know," she said, rising up on her tiptoes and nipping at his earlobe with her sharp little teeth, "About Lord Voldemort, sir?"

 **OOOOO**

She came back as the leaves turned to autumn gold, mischief twined in her ebony hair.

"Miss Black," he said, when Horace showed her into his office. "What can I do for you today?"

A finely tuned pause as the Potions Master closed the door behind him, and then Bella swung herself elegantly onto his desk, dropping her legs either side of his.

"My tiresome sister has run off with her Mudblood boyfriend," she said. "It's reduced my stock somewhat and I'm very _annoyed_."

"Tom places too high a value on blood purity," Albus murmured, closing the book that had rested in his lap and placing it back on the desk beside her. His hand brushed her thigh as he returned it to the arm of his chair.

"Maybe," she said. "In any case, I don't foresee it being a problem for long." She leaned forward, rubbed her nose against his. "You're wrong you know," she sing-songed.

"Wrong about what?" Albus said, resisting the temptation to pull her fully into his lap.

"He feels desire, sir," She sat back a little, winked coquettishly at him. "He is just a man, after all."

 _He'd have to be made of stone_ , Albus thought to himself, and then he remembered the cold, red gleam of Riddle's eyes. "Are you sure, Bella?"

"Don't 'Bella' me," she snapped, the Black temper rearing its ugly head. Her eyes remained narrowed for a moment and then she cocked her head. "I know when a man wants me, _sir_."

Too smart by half, too clever. He could see why Riddle, who had always been frustrated by the inferior intellects of those around him, would want her at his side. "Does he know you see me, Miss Black," he asked. "Would he be," he paused, "Jealous?"

The colour rose in her cheeks. He could see the rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin silk of her robes.

"He likes _power,_ sir." She placed her hands on his shoulders, shifted forward to lean into him. Albus curled his long fingers around her arms. He let her brush her lips against his when she spoke next, "I like power too, sir."

 **OOOOO**

She came back in the depths of winter, with ice in her eyes and a chill in her smile.

"He wants me to marry Rodolphus Lestrange," she said, gaze intent upon his own, searching for a reaction.

"And you would rather not?" Albus stroked a hand across his beard. She glared at him and he saw it then, the first glimpse of something coming loose, unravelling inside her.

"These games!" she spat, "You think I am a toy? A pawn for you to nudge across the board?"

He looked at her, hauteur and elegance and the shock of her beauty like a punch in the gut. "No," he said, "Not a toy."

She pushed her bottom lip out, the expression girlish and out of place on her face. "The Dark Lord wants to bind me close to him," she said, reaching out her left hand, placing her fingertips on his chest. She twisted her wrist so that he could see the Mark that crawled across the skin of her forearm. "See?" she murmured.

Her tone was almost triumphant, Albus thought. "So why the marriage to Lestrange?" he asked.

A glance around to ensure that they weren't observed, at the edge of the Forest, before he allowed himself to stroke a finger across the Mark. It twitched and wriggled under his touch, and Bellatrix grinned. "I am bound to the Dark Lord," she said, "Rodolphus will be bound to me. Loyalty tied to loyalty."

Albus looked down at her. Red lips, white skin. Her eyes like stormclouds. "Lucius Malfoy has made an offer to your sister, I have heard."

"Good," she said, her eyes turning hard. "He loves her enough to keep her safe."

"And what of Andromeda?" Albus asked.

Bellatrix dropped her hand from his chest. "She made her choice," she said. Something, some flicker of _something_ in her eyes. "Does the mudblood love her enough to keep her safe?" she asked him, her voice almost plaintive.

"Why do your sisters need to be kept safe, Bella?"

She stepped away, vulnerable for a moment before she blinked, and grinned again.

"We live in an age of powerful men, Albus Dumbledore," she dropped her voice to a cold, delighted whisper, "And powerful men do love a war."

 **OOOOO**

She came back with the Spring breezes, coiled malevolence and cruel laughter blooming from her mouth.

"Dumbledore," she purred, "Are you pleased with my progress?"

The crack in her facade had opened wide, and darkness oozed from her. She was terrifying in her beauty.

"The Dark Lord sends his regards, Albus Dumbledore," she grinned. "He says to thank you for sending me to his side."

"Bella -"

"Don't _call_ me that," she whirled upon him, eyes wide and bright with menace. "Only _he_ calls me that now."

He reached for her then, a desperate clutch, and she danced away with a sharp laugh. "Too late, Albus Dumbledore."

"He does not love you, Bella," he said desperately, "He _cannot_ love you."

"What would you know?" she hissed. "You are an old fool, and you dismissed me because you thought I was a silly girl." Her smile was manic, "The Dark Lord will make me immortal."

A queen, he realised, carved in bone and crowned in black. A queen, storming the board.

Bellatrix laughed again as she disapparated, the sound echoing between the trees.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** For dearest, dearest **Moonnott**. __I thought this was going to be funny but it turns out that I spent funny Bellatrix on **The Letters of Lord Voldemort,** which can be seen on my tumblr._

 _I only have one prompt queued up for this, so if you'd like me to write something please message me or send me a tumblr ask with a pairing and a scenario. I'm afraid I'm useless at Romione, I won't write Sev/Snamione, and I am incapable of writing Draco with anyone but Harry/Hermione. Other than that, go wild!_


	18. 18: Ghost

_**Ghost**_

 _Pairing: Harry Potter x Gabrielle Delacour_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts EWE_

 _Rating: T_

* * *

"Of course," the official gave a condescending simper, "We are 'onoured to 'ave you 'ere, Monsieur Potter, but ah -"

Harry stopped listening as the man started to list off various bits of red tape and local common-law that stood in the way of the job that he had been sent there to do. _Surely_ , he thought to himself _, Surely he's putting that accent on. It can't possibly be_ -

"And zat eez why, Monsieur Potter, we 'ave arranged for one of our own Aurors to go wiz you -"

"Hang on - what?" Harry's attention snapped back to the oleaginous little man who was smirking at him from the other side of the desk. "That's hardly necessary! I just need to confirm the circumstances of the death, you know, crossing t's, dotting i's…" he trailed away as the man nodded patiently, clearly just waiting for Harry to finish speaking before he batted aside his objections.

"I am sure zat Mlle Delacour will prove 'erself very 'elpful to you, when you are crossing your eyeez -"

"Delacour?" Harry echoed, confused. "As in Fleur?"

The official frowned at him, " _Non_ , Monsieur Potter. Gabrielle Delacour, our vairy own, 'ow you say, _étoile montante_."

"Rising star," Harry supplied unthinkingly, years of dinners at the Weasleys' with Fleur giving him a firmer grasp on French than the other man had perhaps suspected, judging by the suddenly sharp look that was sent his way.

"Just so," Monsieur Leclercq said quietly. " _La Dame Blanche_...best to be ah - _prudent_." The 't' rolled softly from his tongue as he pronounced the word the French way, his beady eyes shrewd on Harry's.

 **OOOOO**

As he followed the squat official through the corridors of the _Ministère de la Magie_ Harry tried to think how long it had been since he had seen Gabrielle Delacour. Bill and Fleur had been married nine years ago last August, he remembered, and Gabrielle had been - what - eleven? - when she had stood as Fleur's bridesmaid.

That would make her twenty now, too young to have qualified in Britain, but Harry knew that Beauxbatons allowed particularly promising students to complete their final year of education while working for their chosen government department. Early acceptance to the _Bureau des Aurors_ was unusual though; Clémence Feron had a reputation as a fearsome Departmental Head.

Harry's stomach swooped as he remembered that he would be Feron's British counterpart in just under two months, when Antioch Selwyn retired.

It was part of the reason he was being sent on all these shitty little clean-up jobs overseas: to give him some exposure to the international colleagues that he would be expected to work alongside when he assumed the role of Head Auror in May.

 _And after that I get to say where I go, so no more bloody pointless jaunts across the fucking Languedoc -_

"Harry."

They'd arrived in the foyer of the _Ministère_ , and her voice cut off his line of thought.

Harry looked up, and saw her.

She was small, fine-boned and breakable-looking. Her hair was a darker blonde than Fleur's, though her eyes were the same shifting shade of violet blue. He knew about the Veela thing; would have expected that she'd be beautiful; but the physical reality of her was frankly astonishing.

Gabrielle smiled at him: dazzled him. He looked to the portly little bureaucrat at his side for help but the man was pointedly not looking directly at the part-Veela girl.

"It has been such a very long time," she said quietly, her accent like the barest lapping of a wave - a gentle erosion of consonants, the subtle drag of a 'r'.

Harry blinked dumbly at her, felt a foolish smile try to spread itself across his mouth, and mentally kicked himself. "Yes," he said curtly. "It has."

Gabrielle's smile faded just a little, and Harry felt the tightness in his chest expand slightly. This was, frankly, a complication that he didn't need.

"Monsieur Leclercq," he said, turning to the man at his side, "Est-il bien nécessaire pour Mlle Delacour de m'accompagner à Carcassonne, car elle est bien jeun-"

She'd stopped smiling altogether as she stepped close to him, and he felt the press of her wand at his ribs. "Might I suggest, Harry Potter, that you not finish whatever it is you were going to say?"

He swallowed, looking down into those violet eyes as Monsieur Leclercq began to edge carefully away. "I am to go with you, Harry. _La Dame Blanche…_ " Gabrielle's voice trailed away, "It is not for a man to go alone."

"Right," he said, "Right then."

 **OOOOO**

Harry found himself reluctantly enchanted by Carcassonne almost as soon as their Portkey deposited them behind a quaint wizarding hostelry in the lower town _._ The cobbled street was quiet, indolent in the warm air of early Spring.

The owners of the hostelry were a couple in late middle-age, so stereotypically French that Harry was almost surprised they weren't wearing berets. Madame Girard clucked and fussed over them, exclaiming at the ring that Gabrielle had produced from somewhere and wore on her left hand to facilitate their alias as young honeymooners. Monsieur Girard grinned slyly at Harry from behind his wife, raising his eyebrows suggestively at the back of Gabrielle's head. Harry could only smile weakly back at him.

As soon as they were alone in their room, with its view of the citadel across the terracotta rooftops of the town proper, Gabrielle gave a dramatic sigh and flopped elegantly onto the sofa.

"I will sleep here, I think," she said.

Harry turned to look at her from where he had been pulling muggle clothing out of his bag. "There's no need for that," he said, "You can have the bed, I'm not - I'm not going to -"

A single eyebrow arched itself at him, and he rolled his eyes, flushing as he turned back to place his jumpers in one of the drawers.

"I do not mean to be rude," she said quietly from behind him, and he realised that she had got up from the sofa and stepped a little closer to him. "I am not - _we_ \- people like me - it is hard, being in a small space with someone else." Harry turned to look at her, saw the uncertainty on her face, and felt abruptly awful.

"You can have the bed," he repeated quietly, "I'll be fine on the sofa."

There was a pause before she nodded and smiled at him again. Her lips were dark pink, almost the colour of raspberries, plump and full. It had been nearly a year since he and Ginny had split up, and he'd been so busy with work that in that whole time he hadn't -

 _Hagrid's dirty socks_ , Harry thought desperately, as he gazed down at Gabrielle _. Ron puking slugs, Hermione and Draco snogging at their wedding_ \- no that was no good because now he was thinking about _snogging_ and -

Gabrielle's nostrils flared the barest amount, and her pupils went huge and dark.

"Let's go for a walk!" Harry yelped, "Get the lay of the land before tonight!"

She remained frozen in front of him for a moment before she nodded, "Yes. That is a good idea, I think."

 **OOOOO**

It was an unfortunate case, but not an unusual one. A young wizard staying in the city had apparently been lured to his death by a mysterious woman in white - _La Dame Blanche_ , as the locals would have it. Supposedly the ghost a witch martyred in the city in the early eleventh century, she claimed a victim every few years or so.

The local authorities had tried reasoning with the ghost, but had found it did little good, and now they simply issued warnings to all travellers to the area. The prevailing attitude seemed to be that if you were stupid enough to follow her then it was your own fault.

Harry had been sent to confirm the witness statements already collected by Feron's Aurors, make sure that there was no evidence of any of what Selwyn had called 'funny business', and then hotfoot it back to London. Part of the confirmation, however, meant retracing Bradley Mackinnon's final movements, and that required him to walk the walls of the citadel at night, which was apparently what the _Ministère_ had got itself so worried about.

After their impromptu turn about the town, he and Gabrielle had an awkward dinner at the hostelry where they pretended to be young lovebirds without ever touching one another. Harry had noticed that Gabrielle maintained a constant distance from him - the closest she'd ever been was when she had prodded her wand into his side on the first day.

"Vous avez tous les petits trucs dont vous avez besoin?" Madame Girard asked as they started up the stairs, smiling indulgently at the pair of them.

"Oui, merci madame," Harry smiled back at her before following Gabrielle up to their room.

She had already transfigured her robes into dark jeans and a sweatshirt by the time he got upstairs, and Harry quickly followed suit. They had decided earlier that afternoon that they would apparate to a pre-agreed spot on the ramparts, walk the route that Mackinnon had apparently taken and make sure that there were no signs of foul play before returning to the hostelry and departing the following morning.

Gabrielle looked at him once he had performed the spell, offering a small half-smile. "Ready?" she asked quietly.

"When you are," Harry nodded.

The spot they'd picked to apparate to was behind one of the square towers on the outer wall, and Harry landed gently by Gabrielle's side. Her golden hair picked up a silvery glint in the moonlight, and when she turned to him her eyes looked very large.

He swallowed hard. "Let's go, shall we?"

 **OOOOO**

They had started near to the spot where Mackinnon had fallen, and they followed his route backwards to the rickety ladder that a local man had reported seeing him climb up.

"It would seem that there is nothing out of the ordinary," Gabrielle said thoughtfully, as they stood staring down the ladder into the dark street below.

"No," Harry agreed, turning to look back in the direction that they had come. He caught a glimmer of something pale from the corner of his eye and frowned, craning his neck to see what it was.

"Harry?" Gabrielle's voice sounded suddenly very far away as he set off along the ramparts towards the white shape. He could hear blood rushing in his ears, and underneath it the eerie silence of the night.

She was stood at the edge of the wall, her pale face turned towards the ground far below. Not beautiful, not the way that Gabrielle was. Eerie, though. Bewitching, Harry thought, stupidly, as he started to climb onto the wall behind her.

" _Laissez-le!"_ he heard Gabrielle scream from behind him, and then she was scrambling onto the wall at his side, and the White Lady was turning her eyes to the pair of them, and he saw that they were empty shapes, black holes in a skull-like face, and he froze. Gabrielle, however, stumbled back in horror, throwing her arm out to the side as she tried to keep her balance.

Harry caught her hand.

He caught her hand, and felt the shock of it in every cell of his body.

The ghost had disappeared, but neither of them noticed. "Âmes soeurs," Gabrielle whispered.

"No," Harry said, though he couldn't quite summon the necessary disbelief. "That's a myth, there's no such -"

"My grandmother," she said quietly, eyes not moving from his. "It is real."

"But before," he said, trying to make sense of it, "When I pulled you out of the Lake…"

In the dark it was hard to tell, but he thought that she blushed. "I was very young, Harry. It is not - not a thing of children…"

"Right," he said, feeling stupid, and inarticulate, and ridiculous. He licked his lips nervously, saw her eyes go to them, and gave into himself. "OK then."

If the touch of her hand had been a shock then the taste of her mouth was revelation; the noise that she made when he kissed her was orison; and the feeling of her body against his was rapture.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathed, when they finally pulled apart.

Neither of them slept on the sofa that night.

 **OOOOO**

Ron stood and waved to him when he walked through the door of the Leaky Cauldron the next evening, and then frowned as Harry tugged Gabrielle behind him.

"Hey," Ron said, "Aren't you…" his eyes drifted to their joined hands, took in the closeness of their bodies, and his eyes widened. "Blimey," he said finally, and Harry grinned.

"We're getting married in a month," he said, revelling in the way that Ron goggled at the pair of them.

"Only you would go to France for work and come back with a bloody Veela," he managed eventually.

"Chosen One," Harry quipped, smiling down at Gabrielle. "Fortune smiles upon me."

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _For **faereose06** who wanted Harry and Gabrielle Delacour, meeting in France when Harry has to go there on Auror business. An instant attraction, a bit of mild peril, and a sprinkle of Ron Weasley..._

 ** _Translations of (extremely rusty) French Bits_**

 _1 Is it really necessary for Miss Delacour to come with me to Carcassonne? Only she's very you-_

 _2 Do you have all the bits and bobs that you need?_

 _3 Let him go!_

 _4 Soulmates_


	19. 19: Volchitsa

**_Volchitsa_**

 _Pairing: Tomione_

 _Universe: Voldemort wins AU_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

A cellar for three days. Table scraps and brackish water and the scrabbling noises of rats in the dark.

She'd tried opening her veins, the _Sectumsempra_ choked desperately, but the iron shackles had held against her magic.

They were keeping her for him, she knew. The last of them all, hunted to the ends of the earth and brought back biting, kicking and screaming to be presented as the final prize to the Dark Lord.

When they came to get her she tried to snatch at wands, tried to claw at faces, and was rewarded with a sound backhand from Rabastan Lestrange that made her head spin and split her lip wide.

The world had barely righted itself when she was thrown to the ground at his feet, but it barely mattered. _The world would never be right again_ , she thought bitterly as she hauled herself to her knees, spitting blood onto the ground and tasting ashes in her mouth.

She looked up, wondering if she would be able to divine the shape that death would take for her when she looked into the darkness beneath the hood of his cloak; but she could see nothing but the faint gleam of his eyes. She remembered his snake-like face, slitted nostrils, and shuddered.

He looked up at the Death Eaters stood behind her. "Leave us," he said.

"My Lord -" Lestrange began.

"Do not make me repeat myself." The air of the room turned cold, sharp with menace, and she heard the hurried sound of footsteps as they hastened to comply, leaving her alone with him.

"Get it over with, then," she growled.

"Get what over with?" His voice was low; he sounded genuinely curious. His face remained hidden but she could imagine that cruel, lipless mouth twisting into a smile.

"I'm the last one left for you to kill."

From the darkness his eyes flashed, and she realised that he was _laughing_ at her.

"Now why would I do that?"

He stepped forward and pushed his hood back. The light chased its way across pale skin, an elegant, cruel architecture of bones, the raven darkness of his hair.

"I put on a new face for you," he murmured, bending his knees so that they were level, and wrapped his long, cold fingers around her neck.

Without their spark of red his eyes were dark blue, the colour of deep water. His gaze made her shiver, made something terrible writhe to life inside her. She grit her teeth as he ran his thumb across her mouth, as he lifted it away and licked the blood from it, leaving a scarlet smudge on his own lip.

"Bare your teeth for me, little she-wolf," he whispered, "I will make you howl."

She looked up at him, at this face that she had not known that he wore, underneath the shadows, underneath the dark. The face from the old photographs, from the memories that Harry had shown her. The heartbreakingly handsome boy. Tom Riddle.

"Why?" she whispered, "Why me?"

"So furiously alive," he murmured. Their faces were inches apart and she couldn't help the way her eyes sought out the spot of her blood that coloured his lip. "You thought me a monster," he said. She watched his mouth shape the words.

"That's because you _are_ a monster." The scent of him, copper and earth and ozone sharpness. Razoring through her, slicing at everything that she was, everything that she believed.

He cocked his head, eyes bright and curious. "And yet…" he said.

He moved with tantalising slowness to close the space between them, mouth capturing hers so gently that she whimpered. The gentleness didn't last - she felt the press of his teeth, the lick of his tongue across the re-opened cut in her lip.

When he pulled away from her she followed, leaning into him, and he laughed.

She opened her eyes to see how her blood stained his chin, dark and shining on his pale skin. "I would please you, Hermione, if you would let me." He ran his eyes across her and she felt the seductive thrill of him.

"Do I please you, little she-wolf?"

The word came before the thought, the feeling burrowing its way into the depths of her. "Yes."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** For **chomskyrabbit** , who asked for a Tomione based on the following excerpt from Deathless, by Catherynne Valente: "I put on blood for you like a cosmetic, just like I put on this face and this body all full of leanness and litheness. It is to please you, my human girl, my volchitsa. Didn't you know? Didn't you guess?"_


	20. 20: Insufferable

**_Insufferable_**

 _Pairing: Ginny x Draco x Harry_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts EWE_

 _Rating: MA_

* * *

Draco Malfoy woke up with his head pillowed on something soft that smelt of freesias, and the melodic flavour of elf-made champagne still on his tongue. _Vaughan Williams_ , he thought. _Tasteful._ He turned his head to burrow further into the freesia-scented pillow and froze as it sighed underneath him.

 _That scent - it couldn't be - he wouldn't have -_

He cracked one eye open, took in the expanse of creamy flesh dotted with soft brown freckles, and a wave of memory crashed over him.

 _Running his tongue up the side of her neck, almost expecting her to taste like the caramel flecks that decorated her skin, reaching around her to slide his hand over -_

The dead weight across his left leg, which he had up until now not really noticed, shifted and gave a sleepy snort.

Draco's other eye flew open and he stared down in utter disbelief as Potter turned his head where it lay on the curve of Weaselette's hip, and smiled sleepily up at Draco. "Look who's awake," he mumbled, with a yawn.

 _Potter's lips against his over Weaselette's shoulder; Draco's arm snaking under her thigh where it was hitched over Potter's hip and his fingers sliding into her, warm and wet. Her fingers tensing as she reached back into his hair, her face pressed into the angle of Potter's neck._

"Fuck," Draco breathed.

"Oof, didn't we?" Weaselette arched her back, which Draco suddenly realised was trapping his arm against the bed. "Godric, Malfoy, talk about hidden talents."

"Oi," Potter muttered, and Draco watched, fascinated, as Weaselette reached down without looking and carded her fingers through his ridiculous mop of hair.

 _One hand coming up to squeeze Weaselette's arse as she lowered her pretty cunt to his mouth, the other firmly fisted in Potter's hair as he - as he -_

"I have to go!" Draco yelped, yanking his arm from under Weaselette and trying to pull himself free of Potter.

"Nuh-uh," the other man said, moving with suspicious swiftness for somebody who had just woken up and pinning Draco's lower half, his arms folded on Draco's abdomen, and his chin propped on them so that he could fix him with his unnervingly green stare across the gulf of Draco's torso.

Behind Draco's head, Weaselette sat up and pulled herself around so that he was laying back between her thighs, could feel the warmth of her against the knob of bone at the top of his spine. He shot a panicked look at Potter and was met with a wicked grin that sent the blood rushing to his groin.

"See?" Potter said, "You don't seem to be _that_ interested in leaving after all."

"What is this?" Draco asked desperately, trying to think of anything except the way that he could feel Potter's heartbeat against his inner thigh, the way that Weaselette's fingers were tracing a design over the skin of his shoulder.

"Well Malfoy," Potter said, tipping his head. "It turns out that elf-champagne _really_ loosens your tongue."

Draco thought back to the Ministry gala the evening before. He'd been stood with Potter at the bar, engaging in their usual amicable banter, when he'd spotted Weaselette crossing the dancefloor in a gown that seemed to be little more than an artfully draped length of navy silk.

" _You're a lucky fuck, you know that Potter." He took another sip of the sparkling liquid, hearing the cello soar in the back of his mind. "Dating the hottest Quidditch player in Britain."_

 _Potter's eyebrows made a bid for his hairline, "I'd tell her you said that, Malfoy, but I doubt she'd believe me."_

" _Oh, well, you're insufferably good-looking as well." Draco pouted into his champagne flute, not thinking about what he was saying. "Salazar's bollocks. All that Auror training, and Quidditch drills. Your sex life must be fucking incredible."_

 _Potter said nothing, and Draco belatedly realised quite how inappropriate he was being. "Forgive me, Potter," he said, "That was -"_

" _Would you like to find out?"_

 _He choked on his mouthful of champagne. "Would I wha-"_

" _Well the thing is, you're not bad yourself, Malfoy." Potter gave him a considering look. "Obviously I'd say more generally insufferable than insufferably good-looking, but you do have a certain etiolated charm."_

 _Draco swallowed carefully. "That's a big word, Potter."_

 _Those green eyes, laughing. "And yet I managed to fit my mouth around it."_

 _Weaselette chose that moment to appear at Potter's elbow. "What are you two talking about?"_

 _Potter didn't move his eyes from Draco. "Funny you should ask, Gin."_

Draco gaped at Potter. "I…" he stuttered, "I…"

"Would you look at that, Ginny?" Potter grinned lazily at him. "We've managed to render Malfoy speechless."

"I can think of better uses for his tongue than snark, anyway," Weaselette said from behind him, leaning over and pressing her lips to Draco's. He gasped in surprise and she took the opportunity to sweep her tongue across his. At the same time he felt Potter's fingers dig into his thighs, felt the scruff of his cheek as he nuzzled the crease of his groin..

"What are you doing?" Draco asked breathlessly, when Weaselette sat up, her hair falling in a red curtain around his face.

"Well you see," she said, "If last night was anything to go by, it seems that three really _is_ the magic number."

"So we've decided to keep you," Potter said. "Unless you've any objection?"

"No," Draco said quickly, "No - I - quite the opposite I -"

"Great," Potter said. "Now where were we?"

* * *

 _ **A/N:** This is for **stefartemis** , who asked for a triad featuring sassy Harry - hopefully this fits the bill?_

 _If triads are your thing then **Shadukiam** 's **The Hedgehog's Dilemma** is a new WIP that I strongly encourage you to follow (Draco x Harry x Hermione); and **Seselt** 's **Xoana, or Cult Effigies** should not be missed (Draco x Theo x Hermione)._


	21. 21: Repotting

**_Repotting_**

 _Pairing: Hermione Granger x Neville Longbottom_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: T (language)_

* * *

"'Mione please just listen."

Ron ran his thumb over her knuckles, his fingers gripping hers tightly. It was as much to keep her from fleeing the conversation as to provide comfort, she knew.

She didn't want to listen, didn't want to have this conversation, _because she already knew_.

His eyes were sad but steady on hers as he went on: "We both know this isn't working, and Godric, Hermione, it's killing me to see you so unhappy."

She wanted to protest, wanted to wrench her hand free of his and tell him that she was _fine, fine, everything's fine_ , but her knew her too well.

 _It's killing me_.

Hermione could live with being unhappy. She had her work, she had a life. It was enough. But one look at the misery in Ron's face and she knew that she couldn't do it to him.

"I don't know what else there is," she whispered, her voice sounding thick and stupid with tears. "I don't know what my life is if I'm not your girlfriend, if I'm not at the Ministry, I don't -"

"When were you last _really_ , _actually_ , happy?" he asked, cutting her off before the panic took over.

Hermione paused, casting her mind back, trying to remember that feeling. Before the War. Before she'd become so determined that she had to _do_ something, to _make_ something of herself. Before.

"Hogwarts," she said softly. "I was happy at Hogwarts."

"Well then," Ron gave her a sad smile. "Maybe you should write to McGonagall."

 **OOOOO**

Minerva had been delighted by the idea; had said she was sick of temporary replacements and relished the notion of having somebody actually capable fill the role. It didn't take much to sway the Governors, and within a fortnight Hermione had received an offer and handed in her notice at the Ministry.

She packed up her pitifully few belongings (four years of a life spent in London, and what did she have to show for it?) and Floo'ed to the Three Broomsticks on August 31st.

Madame Rosmerta fussed and clucked over her, as much of a mother hen as Molly Weasley, though of course in an entirely different way. "You're sure you don't want a Firewhiskey dearie? Bit of a nip in the air this far north, even in August, and you used to that London."

Hermione waved off her concern with a small smile, and set off up the twisting path to Hogwarts Castle, feeling her spirits lift as she breathed in the late summer evening. The familiar turreted silhouette came into view as she turned a corner, and Hermione felt tears threaten as the wave of familiarity broke over her. _Home_.

As she was crossing the wide sweep of lawn in front of the castle a voice called her name, and she turned to see a tall, dark-haired man waving to her from one of the greenhouses. She frowned, stepping closer, then realised with a jolt of surprise that it was Neville Longbottom.

"Neville!" she cried, "I'd forgotten you were working here!"

She was close enough to see his smile falter slightly, and realised too late how that must have sounded. "I mean -" she started, but he waved a hand and shook his head.

"Easily done," he said smoothly. "How are you? I was surprised when Minerva said you'd be coming to join the faculty, I thought you were too busy setting the world to rights."

Hermione gave a laugh that sounded, even to her own ears, entirely forced. "No," she said, unable to disguise the slightly bitter note in her own voice. "No, decided that wasn't for me, actually."

Neville looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. "Fair enough," he said. He lifted one hand to shade his eyes as the evening sun bounced off the slate of the castle rooftop. His shirtsleeves were rolled, and Hermione glanced along the strong, broad line of his forearm.

"Well," he said, "I need to make sure this batch of flutterby bushes are ready for my fourth years tomorrow." He dropped his hand, looking down at her. "I'm sure you must be on your way to meet the Headmistress?"

"Yes," Hermione said, suddenly very aware of how tall he was. "Yes that's right."

"Great," Neville flashed her a broad, easy smile. "I guess I'll see you at dinner." He turned and gave her a little wave as he headed back into the greenhouse, leaving Hermione to continue on her way up to the Castle, an odd stirring in her stomach.

 **OOOOO**

She had worried that she wouldn't be a natural teacher; that her bossiness and tendency to impatience would not endear her to her students, but she found for the most part that they were eager to learn, and that was all that she really cared about.

The first few months passed in a blur, and then suddenly Minerva was roping her in to decorate the Great Hall with icicles and holly wreaths ("Honestly, what use is a Transfiguration Mistress if she can't bring some seasonal cheer to the place?") and she found herself standing with Neville on one of the long tables, carefully levitating a huge garland of holly and ivy that would drape from one end of the Hall to the other.

They had come back to an easy friendship over the course of the term, frequently sitting together at mealtimes and usually paired up to supervise Hogsmeade weekends for the older students. It had surprised Hermione to discover that Neville had a quietly sardonic sense of humour, often delivering well-timed quips under his breath and making her snort with laughter.

"Stop it," she said now, trying desperately to keep her end of the garland level as she fought off giggles.

"What?" he asked innocently, turning his dark brown eyes to her. She could seem him trying not to smile. "All I said was that Minerva was looking very festive."

"Oh my god," Hermione moaned quietly, trying desperately to avoid looking at where the headmistress was striding out of the hall, her tartan hat adorned with holly leaves and bright red berries that clashed horribly with the fabric. Unfortunately this meant that she missed Peeves's entrance until he was hovering right above the pair of them.

"Lookie here," cackled the poltergeist, and Hermione felt her stomach drop with dread. "Longbottom and Granger all grown up and Professorshipped."

"Peeves," said Neville, in what should have been a warning tone but just made Peeves laugh harder before he dropped something on their heads.

"Shit!" Neville swore, putting up his wand as slim green strands wound their way around his shoulder.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice as the plant twined through her hair and around the back of her neck, pulling her towards Neville.

" _Viscum album pravicordium_ ," he growled, and she felt it reverberate against her where the plant had now pulled them tightly together. Hermione swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as she looked up at the five o'clock shadow that covering Neville's square jaw.

Desperately recalling her Latin she frowned, "Vicious mistletoe?"

"Wanton," he corrected. "It's - you have to -" the tendrils wrapped around them jerked, and Hermione became uncomfortably aware of the way her breasts were pressed against the hard planes of his torso.

Neville angled his head downwards. "If it was possible to kill a poltergeist," he murmured, before pressing his lips to hers.

Hermione gave a little squeak of surprise, but before she could react to the feel of his mouth - to the tantalising scrape of stubble against her upper lip - the mistletoe was releasing them, curling itself back into a ball that fell to the tabletop and started scrabbling away in the direction of the door.

"Sorry, Hermione," Neville said, leaping off the table and setting of in pursuit of it. "Need to catch that before it traps any of the students. Bloody Peeves!" he called as he ran out of the door, leaving Hermione stood alone on the table, fingers pressed to her lips and her heart jackhammering in her chest.

 **OOOOO**

The last week of term was taken up with Christmas celebrations, and Hermione found that every time she tried to speak to Neville he seemed to be busy with something or other. She told herself that she was being paranoid, that surely he wouldn't be avoiding her.

She couldn't ignore it, however, when she did her round of goodbyes with the other members of staff and found him skipping out of reach of her hug, one hand rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck.

Hermione dropped her hands to her sides, red-faced with embarrassment. They were lucky that they had been the only ones in the Great Hall when Peeves had launched his attack, and therefore none of the other staff were aware of any reason for awkwardness between them, but she still felt the slight acutely. "Right," she said, "Right, well, see you in the New Year?"

"Yeah," Neville said. "Have a - er - have a good holiday." He grimaced at her and Hermione fought the urge to wince.

Christmas at Grimmauld Place was typically chaotic, as James swooped through the house at knee-level on his new broom and Ginny tried to juggle a teething Albus Severus with preparing Christmas dinner for seemingly hundreds of people. Harry and Ron made an early start on the bottle of vintage Ogden's that George had given Harry, and so Hermione found herself roped in as second-in-command in the kitchen.

After a thoroughly exhausting day, and with the majority of the Weasley clan departed, she and Ginny flopped, spent, in the living room, listening to Harry and Ron laughing at something in the study.

"How are you?" Ginny asked, frowning at Hermione over her glass of wine. "You look much better."

"I feel it," Hermione nodded. "I think I needed to be out of London, and it turns out I really like teaching."

"But?" Ginny prompted.

"But what?" Hermione frowned, and Ginny smiled at her, narrowing her eyes.

"There's a 'but' in there somewhere, Hermione Granger, or I'm a kneazle."

Hermione sighed through her nose, "Something...odd...happened a couple of weeks ago, and I'm not sure what to do about it."

Ginny sipped her wine, watching her silently for a moment. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Neville turning down the invitation to our New Year's Eve party?"

Caught off-guard, Hermione stared at her in shock, "He what? You invited - what?"

Ginny shrugged, "You mention him all the time in your letters you know." She smirked when Hermione blushed. "Harry and I thought it would be nice to get him down here, seeing as the two of you are getting on _so well_."

"Ginny!" Hermione hissed, feeling her cheeks burning.

"What?!" Ginny said, "He said no, anyway. Apparently with it being a quarter moon there's some important thing he has to do in one of the greenhouses."

Hermione bit her lip, deciding how much to tell her. Ginny's eyes narrowed again. "Spill," she commanded, and Hermione found herself telling her the whole story of Peeves and the mistletoe.

"- and he's been avoiding me ever since," she finished, shoulders slumping. "I don't know what to do, I don't want him to feel like he's led me on or something, because even if it _was_ a lovely kiss -"

"Oh-ho!" Ginny crowed.

"- _nothing needs to come of it_ ," Hermione finished, scowling at her friend.

"Sure," Ginny said, "Because the fact that he's held a candle for you since you were first-years means he'll definitely feel _terrible_ about leading you on."

"Oh don't be ridiculous," Hermione snorted, pushing herself up from the sofa. "I'm going to bed and _you,_ " she stabbed a finger at Ginny. "You tell _no-one_ about this conversation."

"Cross my heart," Ginny said, batting her eyes at her, and laughing when Hermione tutted at her.

 **OOOOO**

She couldn't get it out of her head as she watched the hands move around the clock face on New Year's Eve. The idea of Neville alone in the greenhouse.

The idea of Neville.

She saw Ginny watching her, and scowled when the redhead shot her a sly grin. Her eyes slid back to the clock. Eleven pm. Hermione sighed and drained her glass of wine, feeling just reckless and stupid enough to do something thoroughly reckless and stupid.

The Three Broomsticks was filled with revellers when she came through the Floo, and she managed to weave through the crowd without being caught by anyone she knew.

Her breath frosted on the cold air as she made her way towards the school, the path lit with the faint light of the waxing moon, the stars glittering silently. The night felt alive with promise, and she felt her stomach twist nervously.

She had almost wondered if he'd just been making an excuse, if she would arrive at the greenhouses to find them dark and empty, but the bright gleam of lamps illuminated Greenhouse Three, and Hermione made her way towards it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

He didn't hear her come in, his head bent over something, clearly deep in concentration. It was hot in the greenhouse, and Hermione let herself admire the way Neville's shirt clung to the muscles of his broad back. She closed the door behind her, deliberately loud, and he spun towards her, a pot held in his hands.

"Ginny said you couldn't come to the party," she said, when he had stared at her for a full fifteen seconds. "So I thought I'd see if you needed any help here."

There was a smear of dirt on his cheek, accenting the leanness of his face. His eyes were dark and careful on hers. He was worlds away from the chubby-faced, awkward boy that she had known at school.

 _He's held a candle for you since you were first-years_.

She took a step towards him, watched his adam's apple bob in his throat and was seized by the urge to press her lips to it.

"I'm just repotting the Moly," he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.

Hermione nodded, taking another step forwards and rolling up her sleeves. "Show me?" she asked, moving to stand by him as he placed the pot on the bench. She looked up to see him watching her, and smiled at him as she reached for his hand. "Show me," she repeated, lacing her fingers so that his hand cupped hers, and finally Neville moved so that he was standing behind her, Hermione's body between his and the bench.

He lifted their joined hands and delved them into the soil. "You need to get a firm grasp on the root," he murmured, his mouth against her ear. He caught her other hand and guided it into the plant pot, gripping tightly and showing her how to lift the plant free, before turning the both of them so that they could place the shrub into the larger pot that he had already prepared.

"It's important to pack the soil tightly," he said, words a breath on the back of her neck, and Hermione shivered, leaning her head back into his shoulder as they pressed the soil close about the plant.

"Are there any more?" she whispered as he lifted their joined hands free of the earth.

"That was the last one," Neville said, gently extricating his fingers from hers, dropping his hands to rest against the bench either side of her. Hermione turned in the circle of his arms, looking up at him as, faintly, the bells in the little chapel from Hogsmeade could be heard chiming midnight.

"Happy New Year," she murmured, her chin turned up so that her lips were mere inches from his.

Neville seemed to hesitate a moment, and she felt her heart jump with nerves, before he finally closed the space between them, his mouth firm and sure and demanding, the kiss accompanied by that lovely scrape of stubble, and the scent of earth and sweat and green sharpness.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Not a pairing that comes naturally, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Written in response to an Anonymous ask on tumblr._


	22. 22: Brave

_**Brave**_

 _Pairing: ReguLily_

 _Universe: Canon, Marauders era_

 _Rating: T_

* * *

Lily wondered for the umpteenth time why she had opted to take NEWT Potions as she let her feet carry her to the Astronomy Tower. A double-period in the dungeons last thing on a Friday was a horror, even with Black and Potter larking around. "But Professor!" Potter had laughed, emerging from the storecupboard to melted pewter and noxious smoke filling the classroom. "The cauldron wasn't shaped like that when I left - Sirius needs to be kept on a tighter leash!"

Severus had sneered and flicked his eyes to hers, as though they had never fought, as though she would roll her eyes in sympathy with him, but instead she had felt tears burning at the back of her throat that had nothing to do with the smoke that curled its way towards the ceiling.

She knew that it was silly to still grieve for a friendship that had been dead for over six months, and yet she found herself fleeing to the highest spot in the Castle immediately after class finished, knowing that it was the opposite of where Severus would go – that he would seek _down_ , and _dark_ , and _hidden_ , whereas this was high as a prayer, a wish, a leap.

The wooden railing at the balcony of the Tower was covered in a light coating of January frost: turning wet beneath her hands where they gripped too tightly.

"Going to jump?" a voice asked, and she spun on her heel, knowing her cheeks would be burning fit to match her hair, caught between shame and defiance.

He was hidden mostly in the shadows, though the moonlight caught the gleam of his silver eyes, and for a moment she prepared to relax, to berate Sirius for following her and eventually allow the hug that he would offer, the whisper that whatever was wrong didn't matter; that everything would be ok.

But it wasn't Sirius, she saw as he moved further into the light. The breathtaking handsomeness was the same, the angular height, but the night-dark hair was swept neatly back, the face cool, still and watchful. The silver eyes that were so like his brother's met hers and were those of a stranger.

"Evans," he murmured, and his voice held nothing of the teasing familiarity that shaped her name as it left Sirius's mouth. No – this was said slowly, as though he were tasting the strangeness of it on his tongue.

Maybe he was, she realised, for Evans wasn't a name that he would have learned from birth. It didn't have Mulciber's dulcet roundness, nor the sibilant slip of Greengrass. It didn't bite arrogantly from the mouth like _Potter_ , she thought angrily.

It wasn't the short, sharp purity of _Black_.

"What brings you up here, Evans?" he said, his tone almost conversational, and when he stepped up beside her she found it hard to remember that she was nearly a year older than him. He could only barely have been sixteen, but his height, the straightness of his spine, made her feel childish and awkward against him.

"I wanted to get away," she said, hearing the littleness of her voice and cursing herself for sounding small and stupid.

Regulus turned and fixed her with those silver eyes, and where Sirius was a dog, all bounding enthusiasm, this boy was a wolf - haunted and graceful. After a moment he looked away, out over the still grounds, kissed white with winter.

His hands rested beside hers on the railings, and she saw that they were long-fingered and elegant. _Pianist's hands,_ her mother would have said, and unlike those of most of the boys she knew at school they were clean and free of ink-stains. Without really thinking about it Lily drew a finger along the long bone that extended from his middle knuckle to his wrist. _Metacarpal_ , she thought, as her fingertip caught against the edge of a bandage that was mostly hidden beneath his robes.

"You're hurt," she said, frowning, and only then did he move his arm away from her touch.

"It's nothing," he said, and then the arm that he had slipped from her grasp was between them, and he pressed his thumb to the soft depression in the middle of her lower lip, and Lily forgot the question that she had been going to ask as he looked down at her.

His face was far less legible than his brother's but she saw a dance across it - curiosity, desire - and Lily held his gaze as he leaned down towards her slowly, so slowly, as though he was giving her a chance to move away, to say _no, stop_ \- but she didn't want him to stop, and so his lips met hers and she felt the brush of impossibly long eyelashes against her cheeks as she closed her eyes and pressed up towards him.

"Oh," he exhaled a puff of surprise against her mouth, and then he was kissing her more forcefully, with intent, and she wrapped her fingers in the front of his robes and tugged him closer. His hands moved under robes, sliding along the waistband of her skirt, lifting her shirt free of it with a gentle tug and then slipping over the bare skin of her back.

 **OOOOO**

Sirius got the letter a week before Christmas, and as he cried on the sofa of the cottage she met James's eyes and withdrew to the kitchen, making strong black tea with a generous splash of firewhiskey which she took into them on a tray before making herself scarce upstairs.

The wave of sadness that swept over her was unexpected, and she remembered how gentle he'd been, how wary and sad and wondering.

 _I've never_ , she had said.

 _Neither have I_. She'd felt the curve of his smile against her cheek.

Lily pressed her hand to her stomach, still flat, though perhaps slightly more rounded than before. A little glow of life under her palm, a feeling of warmth and promise. She would tell James tomorrow, she decided. So much death, so much danger all around; they needed this - something to cling to, something to protect.

She wondered how Regulus had died; what had prompted him to betray Voldemort.

His mouth against hers had been brave, she realised, had been reckless when he had just taken the Mark. This she wouldn't tell James, wouldn't tell Sirius. The look of moonlight on black hair would remain a secret between her and a dead man.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Written for **disillusionist9** (who is AMAZING) and gave me the prompt "The cauldron wasn't shaped like that when I left." Hope you liked it lovely!_


	23. 23: Peace

**_Peace_**

 _Pairing: Dramione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, Voldemort-wins-AU_

 _Rating: K_

 _Prompt: The poem 'Peace on Earth' by William Carlos Williams - I would suggest that you google this and read it beforehand so you don't get led astray..._

* * *

 ** _Him_**

 _The Archer is wake!_

It is a good time to have the feel of yew in your hands and the stretch of sky above you, and so you kiss her neck before you move the tent flap aside and slip into the darkness that holds its breath for morning.

She taught you this, the taut and spring of the bow, an arrow's flight like a spell made of wood and steel. The honesty of this way of killing.

 _Only for emergencies now,_ she had whispered, all those years ago. Her eyes were a dark shimmer on yours as she took the Hawthorn from your hesitant grasp and wrapped it with her own Vinewood before placing them both in that little purse that she carries tied around her waist. She had held your gaze, raised her hands to your face, thumbs moving under your cheekbones.

Trust, the first thing you learned from her.

 _The Swan is flying!_

Autumn's bite like the taste of an apple, and your eyes seek the familiar constellation still visible in the darkened sky. You remember the sad smile your mother gave as she told you stories of your grandfather.

 _He had three daughters,_ she would say, _and he asked each to tell him how much they loved him. The first said that she loved him as she loved her noble blood, and he smiled and kissed her on the brow. The youngest -_ and here your mother's expression always became something that you did not know the name for _\- said that she loved him as she loved her noble name, and he smiled and kissed her on her soft cheek._

 _What about the middle daughter?_ you would ask, and your mother would close her eyes briefly.

 _The middle daughter said that she loved him as she loved the splendour of the night sky. And for the fanciful notion he threw her from his house, and told her never to return._

You found the story strange when you were a child, but now that you know the truth beneath the tale you think of dark eyes turned heavenwards, reflecting the stars, and you know that your aunt loved best of all.

 _Gold against blue  
_ _An Arrow is lying._

The first rays of the sun bleed into the indigo sky as you step beneath the trees. You know the secret, now, of placing your feet so that you sound like just another woodland creature moving through the dawn. This and other knowings that both of you have made your own as you have built this life together. A life of leaf-dappled sunshine; cold water; bright glades; the snap of canvas. A life in one another's arms.

Ahead, the flick of an ear. A deer stands still, transfixed, and you raise your bow, loosing the arrow in the same movement and seeing the flash of sun on polished wood as it flies along the line of the horizon to pierce the flesh in a kill so clean that you could weep for it.

 _There is hunting in heaven -_

Field-dressing you taught yourselves, and you mastered it with wand first before you trusted yourself with knife. But you knew that she was right when she said _we can't, we mustn't, they'll catch us,_ and so you grew used to the hot gush of blood, to the warm purity of it.

Not _purity_ as you knew the word from your father's mouth, from the Dark Lord's mouth. No, this _she_ taught you. All blood is pure; energy, magic; and if you will not dirty your hands in the taking of a life then you do not deserve the kill.

You pause for a moment, the knife loose in your grasp. You breathe in a lungful of the cold morning air, and you - raised with no higher power than that of your name, that of your blood - give thanks to something nameless for this knowing that she is waiting for you at the camp, that you can return to her with a gift to lay at her feet.

 _Sleep safe till tomorrow._

* * *

 ** _Her_**

 _The Bears are abroad!_

Oh, how you ran: until the air tore at your lungs and you thought that your legs would carry you no further, and then you heard the shout of your name in his voice, saw his arm reach towards you.

It hadn't even occurred to you not to place your hand in his, not to let him pull you away with the squeeze and stretch of apparition. His eyes on yours were desperate and afraid, and behind you was nothing but the snapping jaws of Death, which had already taken everything from you.

You thought that you had nothing else left, but there, in his gaze, you found hope.

 _The Eagle is screaming!_

They set the Castle to flame, and the smoke turned the sky dark. You watched with him from the mountainside that he had apparated to, having fixed in his desperate panic on the furthest visible point. As the fire licked upwards with limbs of orange-red you clutched his arm in horror, feeling the strength of him as you heard, carried on the wind, the screams of those trapped inside.

It was as though the Castle keened its own threnody, the wind filled with endless grief, and you closed your eyes against it; closed your eyes to the new-made ghosts of your friends; and leaned into his warm chest. You pressed your hot tears against the beating of his heart.

 _Gold against blue  
_ _Their eyes are gleaming!_

He's gone when you wake up, and when you leave the tent the morning dew under your feet makes you shiver. The sunrise chases night across the sky, but the dawn is slow - and anyway, darkness is not such easy prey. I _t will be winter soon,_ you think, as you stir the embers from last night's fire.

Winter means longer nights. Easier to run by night, should you need to, but your eyes turn back towards the tent.

You hope that this year, you will not need to run.

After you survived that first summer together (learning to say his name without it meaning _enemy_ , for him to say yours without it meaning _dirt_ ) the autumn had settled quickly upon you, and then when winter came you sat together one night beneath a clear sky and he pointed at stars and told you the stories he had learned from his mother.

His eyes had shone like twin moons in his face.

That night your bodies learned one another the first time, and though it has been years since then you remember it still.

His taste on your tongue like first frost. You have never been a night apart since.

 _Sleep!_  
 _Sleep safe till tomorrow._

* * *

 ** _Him_**

 _The Sisters lie_  
 _With their arms intertwining;_

When you come back to your camp it is quiet and still but there is something in the air that holds the suggestion of wakefulness, and so you lay the deer on the cool ground and wash your hands in the icy stream. When you duck your head through the entrance to the tent you see them straight away, lying on the bed.

Golden curls mingle with dark brown as she turns her head and she lifts a finger to her lips, a smile in her eyes. In sleep your son's face is perfect, doll-like; a replica of his mother's; though already your own sharpness has started to shape the bones of his chin.

You are both so young, and it was such a very reckless choice, but the life that you have made together is a tapestry of reckless choices. When she had looked at you, when she had whispered _I didn't think_. When you saw the intermingling of hope and fear in her gaze and you answered only _I love you_ , and it had seemed that there was nothing else to say.

 _Gold against blue  
_ _Their hair is shining!_

Of course you have to wake Scorpius eventually, but you leave him for now. The two of you slip to the other side of the glade and you breakfast on the salt-sweat of her shoulder, and press your body into hers, and whisper that _I love you, Hermione, I love you I love you_ , and when you hear her say it back - _I love you, Draco Malfoy_ \- you feel that you are invincible.

Her hair catches the low sunlight, momentarily golden beneath the blue sky.

 _The Serpent writhes!_

You get news when you can - more murders, more pain, the regime collapsing into a black hole of its own hatred.

 _They're turning on one another,_ she says, showing you the paper that she stole, and you bite your tongue because you want to be furious that she would risk it, and yet - and yet -

She is all the hope that you have, she and this golden creature that the two of you have somehow made, and so when the day comes that you are found, that they come to your camp under a boiling sky, you tell her to _Go, go! Take Scorpius and run!_

 _Gold against blue  
_ _His sword is glistening!_

And as the crack of her apparition sounds behind you, as you feel Death standing in your shadow, one of the masked men steps forward.

He wears blue robes in place of the usual black; pulls the gold-chased mask from his face.

His eyes are the same humourous glitter of hazel and his mouth twists upwards in the old ironic smirk. A face that you have known since you were small; the face of the best friend that you left behind.

Your heart skips to see him. Plummets to the ground.

He lifts his wand. Sun on polished wood.

 _Run, Draco,_ he says. _This is all I can give you._ And then he turns to face the others alone.

You don't look back as you follow her.

 _Sleep!_

She holds you as you cry bitter, silent tears. When you finally open your eyes she is staring back at you.

 _Make it count,_ she says, movement of lips against your mouth. _He gave us time, we have to make it count._

 _There is hunting in heaven—_  
 _Sleep safe till tomorrow._

* * *

 _ **A/N:** This was written for **turbulenthandholding** (my god, what an incredible human being), who has the most wonderful reasons for loving this poem, and it's a __dramione! I hope this has made at least one of my guest reviewers is happy about this, although I appreciate that it is a VERY WEIRD ONE. I hope that you liked it nonetheless._

 _Also I should say that the idea of a Dramione camping scenario was planted by the very excellent **Out of the Flames** by **PhoenixTwins** \- another one to add to your reading list._


	24. 24: A Marauders' Night's Dream

_**A Marauders' Night's Dream**_

 _Pairing: Jily (James Potter x Lily Evans), implied Wolfstar (Sirius Black x Remus Lupin)_

 _Universe: Marauders-era, Marriage Law AU_

 _Rating: MA (sex and sailor-mouths)_

* * *

"I have to what?" Sirius's jaw hung open, offering up an unappetising view of his half-chewed mouthful of sandwich.

From where he sat beside his best friend, James glowered at Dumbledore. "He has to _what?"_

"In order to provide a measure of protection to Muggle-born witches and wizards, the Ministry has passed legislation that they must find a suitable pureblood match."

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling.

It was not reassuring.

"A sort of 'marriage law', if you will," he said, smoothing a hand over his silvery beard.

"Just...how is that supposed to help anything?" Remus asked quietly from where he leaned against the wall, off to one side. The afternoon sunlight falling through the windows of the Headmaster's office threw his scars into sharp relief against his pale skin.

Dumbledore gave the group of them one of his more inane smiles. "According to ancient wizarding lore, any magical person who marries into a pureblood family becomes, automatically, a pureblood themselves."

"Bullshit," Sirius snorted, apparently forgetting who he was talking to. "I grew up in a houseful of pureblood fanatics and they'd sooner die than have a halfblood, let alone a Muggle-born, marry in." His eyes strayed to Remus, who studiously avoided his gaze, his ears reddening slightly.

James sat back in his chair, listening to his own pounding heartbeat in his ears. Evans couldn't - she _couldn't_ marry Sirius. This was supposed to be the year: the year that he would win her, the year that she would _finally see_. And now to think that all his efforts, all his hard work to actually _make_ something of himself might be wasted, and she would be married to his best friend because the fucking Ministry had enacted some idiotic law...

He glared down at the Head Boy badge that winked stupidly from where it was pinned on his robes.

"Be that as it may…" Dumbledore hummed softly to himself, selecting a sherbet lemon from the bowl that sat on top of his desk. Apparently he didn't feel the need to elucidate further.

"Why Sirius, sir?" James blurted finally, earning himself a bemused look from the Headmaster, and a slantwise scowl from his friend.

James resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sirius Black, most contrary wizard _ever fucking born_.

"Mr Black is a very ah, _recognisable_ member of pureblood society," Dumbledore said finally, "His marriage to Miss Evans would make a statement to other purebloods of your generation: 'You do not have to toe the family line in order to continue the family line'." He gave a dry little chuckle, "By Merlin, that was rather good, wasn't it?"

"What if I don't want to marry Evans, sir?" Sirius said, making it his turn to be scowled at by James.

 _Who wouldn't want to marry Evans? With her gorgeous hair, wicked smile, those mesmerisingly green eyes and her brilliant laugh, her incredible brea-_

 _Oh_ , James thought as he glanced towards Remus. _The breasts probably have something to do with it, actually._

"Sir," Pete had been so quiet up to this point that James almost jumped when he spoke up from beside him. "Have you - have you asked Lily who she'd like to marry?"

"Merlin's beard, Mr Pettigrew," Dumbledore peered at him over the top of his half-moon spectacles, "Do you think we would just storm ahead without any consultation of the interested parties?"

James bit his tongue before he could say anything that might risk his Head Boy status being summarily removed.

"Miss Evans confessed to having rather a soft spot for Mr Black here, and said that of all the pureblood wizards that she might have to choose from, she thought that he would make the best husband."

Sirius's mouth fell open again as James gave a half-strangled groan of protest. _Fucking Evans_. Pete put a gentle hand on his arm and James couldn't even bring himself to shrug it off.

 _Stupid fucking Evans with her stupid hair and her stupid laugh and her stupid clever brain and her fucking awful marvellous breasts._

"Do I - do I get any say in this, sir?" Sirius asked, his voice sounding oddly off-key.

Dumbledore's expression turned abruptly serious. "The Ministry has created this law in order to try and prevent harm coming to witches and wizards who, like Miss Evans, cannot trace their families back to the Middle Ages," he said coolly. "Flawed though it may be, would you deny your friend any measure of protection that you are able to give?"

James wondered if punching the Headmaster for such a singularly brilliant piece of manipulation would stand any chance of being explained away as congratulatory. He didn't think so, and yet it was _so tempting_.

"Right," Sirius said, sounding dazed. "Right then, I guess…" He looked at Remus again, and this time the other young man held his gaze just a beat too long, something indefinable passing between the pair of them. "I guess that's um…" Sirius frowned, "Why did you need all of us here to hear this?"

A pleasant smile peeped through Dumbledore's flowing beard, "Because I thought it best that you all hear it from me, rather than whatever garbled version of the law makes its way around the rumour mill by dinnertime. Now," he squinted at the astrolabe that twirled about an inch above the surface of his desk, "I think that you should all be running along to Transfiguration, don't you?"

The Marauders trooped down the staircase in gloomy silence, pausing at the bottom to look at one another.

"Well, balls," Sirius said finally, still wearing the same oddly dazed look that had come over him in Dumbledore's office.

" _Fuck_ ," James swore, curling his hand into a fist and punching the nearest inanimate object, which turned out to be the wall.

Unfortunately for the Head Boy, the particular stretch of wall that he had chosen to express his frustration on didn't take too kindly to its maltreatment and James found himself being socked smartly in the jaw by a fist made of granite.

In spite of the blinding pain he managed to make it to Transfiguration with his friends' help, where he spent the next hour being eyed narrowly by McGonagall as he stumbled his way through turning glass into crystal (although honestly he performed fine, because it was Transfiguration, he was James Potter, and _please_ ).

By the time the lesson came to an end the bruise on his jaw had developed a nasty purple colour, and the throbbing ache told him that it was probably fractured.

"Take him to the Hospital Wing, Wormtail, there's a good lad," Sirius said once McGonagall finally released them. "I need to have a word with Moony here."

Remus turned on his heel and frowned, and James groaned internally at the thought of whatever Sirius might have to say. "Just, let's go, Pete," he murmured, his injured jaw making the words oddly slurred.

He hadn't missed the way that Evans had cast lingering glances at Sirius all through the class, or the way that when James had caught her eye she had frowned at him and bitten her lip. James wondered, as Pete steered him towards the Hospital Wing, what Evans had thought had happened.

 _Maybe she thinks I tried to fight Sirius for her._

 _What does he even have that I haven't?_

 _It's like the more I love her, the more she hates me._

 _Maybe she…_

 **X x X**

James was mumbling incoherently to himself and Peter sighed deeply. It was a bloody mess, this stupid Ministry law. He'd almost thought Dumbledore might have been joking, but then he'd overheard a couple of Ravenclaw girls gossiping over their crystal wine glasses about how quiet, nervy Alastair Corner was apparently going to be married to Florence Abbott from Hufflepuff.

Florence Abbott was sweet, and pretty, and came from an old and respected family, and Peter couldn't help the little note of jealous resentment that squirmed inside him. The Pettigrews were hardly Sacred Twenty-Eight, but Peter's parents were at least magical. He'd heard that Corner's father was a greengrocer; had had to ask Lily what a greengrocer even _was_. Peter sighed, feeling guilty at the thought of Lily's teasing laugh.

And even if he _had_ been Sacred Twenty-Eight what did that even mean? Sirius's derisory tone when he spoke about his family caused Peter a sort of sickened awe. He wasn't sure whether it was more because of the casual way that Sirius dismissed his heritage, or because of the unwavering belief in right and wrong which had allowed him to cast off the prestige of the Black name as though it was nothing.

"Every other girl says I'm just as handsome as _Padfoot_ ," James said loudly, out of nowhere, causing Peter to shush him hurriedly. "What?" James said, trying to shrug him off, "What of it, anyway? Evans obviously doesn't think so." He sighed, and rested more of his weight on Peter's shoulder, making him stumble slightly. Prongs was so _bloody tall_.

"She'd probably just say it's not about looks but about personality or something," James went on gloomily, "And I've spent the last six years royally fucking myself on that front."

"Well," Peter demurred, but couldn't really think of much to say that wouldn't be in complete agreement with his friend's assessment. "But would you actually want to _marry_ Lily though, if she'd picked you?"

"Wormtail," James said, "I - ow - bugger it," he clutched his jaw gingerly, then huffed. "I would marry Evans tomorrow, if she asked me. Whether it was to protect her or not. I would marry her _right this second_ , if she wanted me to. She'd only have to ask."

Peter squinted at James, noting the miserable resignation on his face. "Right then," he murmured, his mind whirring into action. "Good to know."

 **X x X**

"You're being a child," Remus said, the points of his cheeks stained crimson.

"How can you - bloody Merlin - how am I being childish by asking you to run away with me?"

Remus stared at him, then laughed softly, "Circe's teeth, Sirius, would you _listen_ to yourself?"

Sirius opened his mouth, paused, frowned and then sighed deeply. "I love you," he said, the words very quiet, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"I know that," Remus said, feeling immediately, horribly, guilty. "And you know how I feel. But you heard Dumbledore - this could keep Lily safe -"

"I'm as much of a target as she is," Sirius snorted, "Blood traitor and all."

"But he was right about the symbolism of it -"

"Fuck the symbolism," Sirius muttered, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him.

It was worse somehow, seeing that, Remus thought, and so he raised his hands to stroke both thumbs across Sirius's slanting cheekbones, leaning his forehead against the other young man's. Before he knew it, Remus heard himself speaking: "We could though - if you wanted - just for a couple of days -"

Sirius leaned his head back sharply, silver eyes boring into Remus's soft green ones. "Run off together?"

Remus gave a half shrug, "It's Friday, isn't it? We know the Forest better than anyone so we could just - for the weekend, you know. Let you get your head around it?"

"Let me get my leg over, you mean?" Sirius grinned at him, but it lacked its usual wicked glint. "Marriage - that bond - you know what it is -"

"I know." Remus swallowed hard, "And you'd need to make sure _Lily_ knows before you do anything official, but you can't - if that's - if it means she'll be safer…"

His voice trailed away, and they looked helplessly at one another.

"Prongs'll never speak to me again," Sirius said, in a moment of uncharacteristic insightfulness.

"If it's what Lily wants, Prongs will march you down the aisle himself," Remus said, and Sirius laughed quietly.

"True," he murmured. "But you'd - we can - the Forest, this weekend?"

"Who's going to the Forest?" Pete asked, appearing at Sirius's elbow and causing the pair of them to leap apart guiltily.

"Fuck _me_ , Wormtail," Sirius yelped. "How the fuck did you find us?"

They were tucked into a large alcove behind the statue of Nadhim the Nefarious, in a little-visited corner of the sixth floor.

Pete produced the Map and waved it under Sirius's nose. "Prongs gave it to me for safekeeping," he said. "Now what's this about going to the Forest?"

"Just, erm," Sirius stuttered, looking to Remus in panic.

The young werewolf rolled his eyes. "It's a big thing, this whole marriage law malarkey, and I said to Sirius if he wanted to blow off some steam we could, uh, spend the weekend in the Forest."

Pete gave him a knowing look. "Sounds great, I'm in. And I'm sure Prongs will be all for it." His watery blue eyes glinted as he watched Remus. _Lie to me,_ Pete's eyes seemed to say, _Go on, see if I don't notice_.

Remus shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I - er - that is -"

"We were thinking just dogs, Pete," Sirius said, with a nervous edge to his voice.

"Oh, alright then," Pete smiled blithely, and Remus felt a strange whisper of unease.

 **X x X**

"I just can't really believe it's happening," Lily was saying to Marlene McKinnon when Peter slipped into the seat next to her in the Great Hall and started helping himself to steak and kidney pie.

" _I_ can't believe you've managed to snag _Sirius Black_ ," Marlene huffed, stabbing aggressively at her plateful of chicken. "You lucky bitch."

"Congratulations, Lily," Peter smirked, his smile widening as she rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him. "Taming the Black sheep."

"I haven't _tamed_ anyone," she protested. "Sirius and I are friends and if I have to marry a pureblood, better him than bloody James stupid Potter."

"Right," Peter said, exchanging a glance with Marlene. "Good reasoning."

"Shut up," Lily grumbled. "Potter's an idiot."

"There are other purebloods," Marlene said. "It's not just Black or Potter."

"I, for example, am a pureblood," Peter pointed out. Marlene smirked as Lily gawked at him.

"You - but - I -"

"Lily." Peter softened his smile, "I'm not having a go at you. But are you sure you know what you're doing, choosing Sirius?"

"Marriage is - it's for _life_ ," Marlene said.

"I know that," Lily said, her face reddening as she glared into her soup. "Sirius would - it wouldn't be _difficult_ , with him, we get along, we wouldn't _argue_ , he wouldn't be _completely bloody infuriating_ -"

"Are we still talking about Sirius?" Marlene asked, her forehead creasing with confusion.

"Of _course_ we are," Lily shoved herself away from the table, "Who else would we be bloody talking about?"

She grabbed her bag and stalked out of the Great Hall, her furious demeanour attracting curious glances from a few other students.

Marlene popped a potato in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I don't know why she doesn't just come out with it and say she actually wants James," she said eventually. "But I think she'd see it as some sort of capitulation."

"This whole law is going to end in tears," Peter murmured, and Marlene gave him a sharp look.

"You can see the Ministry's reasoning, even if it is flawed."

"Can you?" he asked. "From where I'm sitting there's at least four people who are going to end up completely miserable because of one half-cocked piece of legislation."

"But if it means Lily will be safer -"

"She'd be safest with James," Peter said firmly. "He'd die for her." He frowned at the remnants of his pie, "If Lily wasn't so stubborn she'd see that and it would all be _fine_."

Marlene was eyeing him nervously, "Pete, what are you -"

"I have to go," he said, standing up quickly. "There's something I need to do."

"Righty ho," Marlene sighed to the empty plate in front of her. "I'll just be off to the library then."

 **X x X**

"Mr Pettigrew!" Professor Slughorn's unctuous voice cut through the still dungeon and Peter looked up at him, face pleasantly bland. "Not like you to put in extracurricular hours."

"I just had something I wanted to look up, Professor," he held out the copy of _Eddlethwaite's Everyday Elixirs_ that he'd found on Slughorn's desk. "All the copies in the library were out but Madam Pince said she thought you might have one. I hope I'm not intruding?" Peter stepped away from the desk, his other hand gripping his bag tightly to ensure the contents didn't clink and give him away.

"Not at all, not at all," Slughorn murmured, eyes straying to the cabinet that an earlier nocturnal expedition by the Marauders had revealed contained a rather nice bottle of honeyed mead.

"Well I'll be going then, sir," Peter said, maintaining his hold on his bag. The vial had been dusty, half-hidden at the back of the cupboard. He'd clocked it during the aforementioned night-time raid on the potions stores, and had filed the observation away for future reference.

Peter was good at noticing things. And he rarely forgot what he'd seen.

 **X x X**

"What do you mean they're buggering off to the Forest?" James asked, thumbing his still-tender jaw. The bruising had all but disappeared but the ache lingered.

Peter shrugged, "They said they wanted some time together."

"But Sirius - if they're running away - he can't just leave Evans in the lurch!"

Peter lifted his hands helplessly. "I mean, if you want to go after them and talk sense into Pads-"

"Too bloody right I do!" James shouted, and Peter winced as McGonagall frowned their way from where she sat at the teachers' table.

"Blimey Prongs," Peter said, "Could you maybe calm down?" He reached over to catch James's shoulder, surreptitiously lifting a hair from his robes. "We'll go after dinner, OK?"

"Go where?" Remus said, sitting down opposite them.

"Where's Padfoot?" James demanded bluntly, shooting daggers at Remus across the table, who had the good grace to look distinctly guilty.

"He's er...he's gone…for a walk?"

"Who has?" said Lily, sliding onto the bench next to Remus. Peter smiled and poured her a glass of pumpkin juice.

"Your _betrothed_ ," James groaned dramatically. "It would seem that he's fucked off to the Forbidden Forest."

"I wish _you_ would fuck off to the Forbidden Forest," Lily muttered, her green eyes narrowing into slits.

"Do you, Evans?" James rose out of his seat and leaned over the table towards Lily. "Well maybe I _will_."

"Good!" Lily said, standing to jab a finger into his face. "Good fucking riddance, James Potter!"

They were both red in the face, noses inches from one another, and though their voices were quiet the intensity of the exchange was attracting attention.

Peter saw Lily's eyes flick down to James's lips, slightly parted and barely a foot from her own. He glanced at Remus, who raised his eyebrows at him as he took a sip of pumpkin juice.

A sip of - Peter looked down at the table with rising horror, then back at Remus, who had a funny little frown on his face as he stared bemusedly at James.

"Prongs," Remus murmured, but James was turning on his heel and striding from the Hall.

"I am done, Evans, you hear me? _Done_ ," he yelled over his shoulder.

"James, wait!" Remus sprang up from the bench, rushing after James's retreating figure.

"Shit," Peter whispered, eyes on the empty goblet that Remus had left standing on the tabletop. "Bye Lily," he called as he jumped up and ran after the pair of them.

Lily stood frozen in confusion for a moment, then gave a frustrated growl and followed them all out.

 **X x X**

James had transformed the moment he was far enough into the Forest not to be seen from the castle, and though Remus could smell him he was nowhere near as fast when not in wolf form.

How had he never noticed how _wonderful_ Prongs smelled? Like cut grass and broom polish and a certain spiciness that was all Prongs and -

"Remus!" Sirius grabbed his arm as he ran past, and Remus nearly growled with annoyance, shoving him away. "Hey, what the hell -"

"I've got to find Prongs, where's Prongs?"

"I'm right here." James stepped into the little clearing, bare shoulders dusky in the autumn moonlight. He was dressed only in his uniform trousers, having obviously, with typical Prongs-ness, cast aside the rest of his clothes before transforming.

" _James_ ," Remus gave a breathy sigh, and flung himself at his friend. "I've found you," he whispered, wrapping his arms around the other man and pressing his lips to his neck.

James flailed in Remus's embrace, "Moony get _off_ me -"

"Remus!" Sirius yelped, "What the -"

"Oh thank Godric, here you all are." Peter's voice was sharp and he bent double as he came stumbling to a stop, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

"Wormtail." Sirius's voice was tight, his eyes fixed on where James continued to wrestle with Remus, who was now attempting to hook one of his legs around him, lips still suctioned to James's neck. "Any chance you might be able to explain what _the hell_ is going on?"

"Err -" Peter said, staring at the spectacle before him in horrified fascination.

"Pete!" Sirius's bark snapped him back to attention, and Peter shot him a sheepish look.

"There is a chance - that is to say - possibly -"

"Spit it out Pete, for fuck's sake - NO, MOONY, STOP -"

"What the actual fuck is this?"

The three _compos mentis_ Marauders turned to gape at Lily as she appeared at the edge of the clearing, face set in an expression of stony disapproval.

"Well, Wormtail?" Sirius's face was murderous, arms folded and mouth forming a thin line.

Peter's face spasmed with dread, "Remus might have accidentally drunk some pumpkin juice that I'd spiked with a lust potion."

James clamped his hand over Remus's mouth as he forced him into a headlock. "He might have _what_?"

"Lust potion," Peter whispered, "But it was supposed to be for Lily!"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lily whirled on him, eyes catching the moonlight and flashing dangerously.

"You can't marry Sirius!" Peter yelled back, "Not when James is in love with you!"

"When - wait, what?" Lily turned to stare at James, who had, in his shock, released his hold on Remus, who pounced on him once more.

"Oh Godric Prongs, your hair is so soft," he crooned, reaching up and curling his fingers in it.

"I don't fucking _believe_ this," Sirius growled, pulling his wand from his pocket. " _Stupefy!"_

Remus slumped against James, who caught him and lowered his prone form gently to the ground, not moving his eyes from Lily's.

"You," she breathed, "You - me -"

"You little shit, Wormtail," Sirius's harsh voice cut through the clearing as he turned his wand on Peter.

"I was trying to help!" Peter yelled. "You'd have married Lily because of your idiotic honour code and you'd both have been bloody _hopeless!_ She only chose you because she's too proud to admit she'd prefer James -"

"Wait, what?" James cut in weakly, but Peter was on a roll now.

"And then Remus would have been completely heartbroken because the two of you can't just come out with it and say you're in love with one another -"

Sirius paled visibly, "How did you -"

"EVERYONE KNOWS, PADFOOT," Peter bellowed, finally losing his temper, and then immediately shooting a guilty look at Lily. "Well. Almost everyone."

"You are?" Lily asked, her voice sharpening into a little squeak. "And you'd have - you were going to -"

"Lils," Sirius ran a hand over his face. "You're my friend, and if you need me to do something to protect you then I will."

"But - but _Remus_ ," she said, lamely.

"That," Peter sighed, "is my point exactly."

"A lust potion though, Pete?" James asked, tangling his hands in his hair in frustration, " _Really?_ "

With both his arms up and his trousers riding low on his hips, the position showed off James's chiselled torso to its best advantage. Peter heard Lily made a quiet whimpering noise as he grimaced, "I just thought, a little push, you know -"

"Oh well fucking _done_ , Wormtail, what a _fantastic_ plan." Sirius's voice dripped sarcasm, but the venom had left his tone and he sounded mostly tired. "This is why you aren't the ideas man."

Peter glared at him for a moment, his expression twisted under the pale light into a scornful sneer. "Right, Padfoot," he said quietly. "Because your ideas are always so very brilliant."

Neither of them noticed Lily stepping towards James, who was watching her warily. "Is it true?" she asked softly.

"Is what -" James paused, swallowed; licked his dry lips, "Is what true?"

"What Peter said." She was stood very close to him now.

"Well Padfoot does tend to have some fairly idiotic ideas -"

"James."

His eyes scanned over her face, and he seemed suddenly to realise that he was half naked, folding his arms over his chest self-consciously. "It, erm," he made a face, "It might be true, yeah."

Lily blinked, one hand rising so that her fingers rested on her lips. Hesitantly, she reached forward with the other and laid her palm against the smooth muscle of James's stomach.

He sucked in a breath, staring at her, and then smiled a slow, brilliant smile.

 **X x X**

"You really are one to talk, Wormtail, I mean _Merlin's bollocks,_ what if it hadn't been Remus, huh? What if it had -"

"Sirius."

"Yes I _am_ serious, this could have gone even _more_ fucking pear-shaped and then what would we have -"

" _Sirius._ "

"For Godric's sake Wormtail you have to admit -"

"SIRIUS!" Peter shouted, and finally the other young man shut up, staring at his usually quiet friend.

Peter sighed. "Where are James and Lily?"

Sirius gaped at the corner of the clearing where Remus's stupefied form now lay alone; if they hadn't just been screaming at one another Peter would have laughed at the expression of total befuddlement on Sirius's usually composed face.

It didn't last long however, and when Sirius looked back at him it was with a gleam of mischievous complicity in his silver eyes.

"Well, my Wormy little friend," Sirius gave a disbelieving chuckle, "It would seem that your absurd plan might have worked after all."

Peter gawked at him for a moment before he, too, started to giggle at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

 **X x X**

"Evans," he murmured against her mouth, "Evans wait -"

"Why?" she asked, leaning away from him and frowning in confusion.

Her lips were swollen and dark in the moonlight and James nearly groaned with frustration as he tried to assemble a faint vestige of gallantry. He scrunched his eyes closed to avoid getting distracted by the witch in his arms.

"You said you wanted to marry Sirius but if you - this - with me -" he took a deep breath, "You'd have to marry me, Evans, for this law. If we do this, you'd have to marry me and you shouldn't - I don't want to -"

There was a beat of silence and James squinted one eye open. Lily's lips were pursed and she was eyeing him sceptically, her hands resting on his biceps. "You don't want to what?" she said finally, and James sighed.

"I don't want to force you into that, Lily," he said quietly. "If you have to marry someone it should be someone you think you can actually live with -"

"You twat, Potter," she whispered, but she was smiling, her eyes were dancing and James felt hope rise up in his chest and make his heart race and his palms tingle and -

"I'd rather live with you and spend half my time wanting to kill you," she murmured, rising up on her tiptoes to brush her lips over his again, "Than be forced into some sham of a marriage by my own pride and the Ministry's idiocy."

James grinned against her mouth as he kissed her again, as he tangled his fingers in her beautiful hair the way he'd wanted to since he was twelve years old and he'd looked over at her in Charms one day and suddenly just _seen_.

Lily's breaths were coming in short little pants against his mouth, and as she swept her hands up the bare skin of his back James dared to move one of his own from her waist to palm her breast, thumbing her nipple into a hard little bead underneath the soft cotton of her blouse.

"Oh my god," Lily moaned, "Oh my god, _James_."

She slipped her hands back down, and then they were below his waistband, cupping his arse, and Lily drew her head back, smiling quizzically at him. "You aren't wearing any underwear," she said. "Actually," her eyes moved down his chest before returning to his face as one of her eyebrows raised, "You aren't really wearing much _at all_."

"Yeah," James said breathlessly, "Yeah, about that -"

"I'm not complaining," Lily said, as one of her hands found his already half-hard cock and stroked it.

"Fu-uck," James choked, "Fucking - Merlin -"

"I prefer Lily," she whispered, before her tongue slipped across his and James found himself kissing her forcefully, hands grasping her thighs and lifting her, spinning to press her against a tree.

Lily's gasp sounded almost pained and he pulled back, gazing at her with concern. "Are you sure about this, Evans?"

She made a noise that was half-laugh, half-growl. "This, Potter?" She squeezed her thighs and arched her spine so that the heat of her centre rubbed against him, and James buried his moan in her neck. Lily's lips were soft on his ear as she wove her fingers into his hair and started to tug his mouth up to hers once more, "This is called _consent_."

James was fairly certain that he was fumbling, that he was rushing things, that the sheer impossibility of having actual Lily Evans in his arms, moaning his name, was throwing off any possibility of smoothness on his part. But he had her blouse open, and he had her beautiful, rosebud nipple in his mouth.

He had the dig of her fingernails in his shoulder when his hand completed its journey north to the apex of her thighs.

He had the sigh of her name on his tongue when he slipped two fingers into the hot, wet perfection of her.

He had his teeth on the lovely, pale column of her throat as she pushed his trousers down, as he nudged his cock against her.

"Are you sure, Evans?" he whispered, running his tongue over the marks left by his teeth on her neck.

"You'll have to call me Potter," her laugh ruffled his hair, breathy and soft.

"Huh?" James's head was spinning, barely able to process the idea that he was about to lose his virginity to _Lily bloody Evans_. James was no innocent: he'd had his share of encounters behind the quidditch pitch and in broom cupboards but he'd always stopped short of this - and _this_ \- this was Lily _bloody_ -

She murmured a quick charm, shimmied against him and then slid herself down his length. James heard himself make a choking gasp, heard Lily echo it as he thrust upwards into her.

"Potter - oh - oh my - _yes_ \- you'll have to call me - god, _James_ \- when we're married -"

"Marry me," he groaned, "Marry me, Evans, _Godric_ -"

"Potter you - oh -" she tugged his hair, clenched herself around him. "You twat, of course, _of course_ I'll marry you and then - _aah"_

It was a lovely sound, a sound he wanted to hear more of and so he rolled his hips upwards again, tasting the shape of the noises she made as he licked his tongue into her mouth.

Too soon, too quickly, he could feel himself getting close, and he slipped a hand in between them, rubbing her clit in time with his thrusts, a slight warming charm on his fingers. Suddenly Lily tightened, whimpering, and then he felt the shivering pulse of her muscles around him and James came with a shuddering gasp, squeezing his eyes shut as he saw white.

He slid down to his knees, Lily still astride him. She lifted his chin and James kissed her, stunned and smiling and sated but still wanting more, more, wanting all of her -

Lily broke the kiss, pressing her lips to his cheek, to his nose, to the fading bruise on his jaw. "Lily Potter," she breathed, "You'll have to call me Lily Potter, when we're married."

"You'll always be Evans to me, Evans."

 **X x X**

"Look," Peter said, "Look."

"I'm looking, Mr Pettigrew." McGonagall's voice was dry as a bone.

"OK," he murmured, "I can explain."

"Can you though, Pete?" Sirius smirked from behind him.

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had rescued them from their idiocy and were they fucking grateful?

"There is a possibility that the lust potion was a step too far," he admitted.

"Really?" said Lily, "You _really_ think so?"

Peter's eyes fell on her hand, fingers twined with James's. _You're welcome, by the way._

"Remus is fine!" he exclaimed, gesturing to where Moony leaned against Sirius's side.

The werewolf grimaced. "I will be fine," he said, "Once I feel up to scourgifying my tongue."

"That's quite enough of that, Mr Lupin," McGonagall said briskly. "I do not want to know more than I need to about this little sylvan _adventure_ of yours."

Peter sighed and dropped his head into his hands. _Of course_ it would have been McGonagall who caught them sneaking back from the Forest. _Of course_ he would be expected to justify himself here and now.

He sat there, between his four best friends, and felt suddenly very alone.

"I'm sorry, alright?" he said. "It wasn't particularly well thought through, but I just had to do _something_ before someone else -" here he eyeballed Lily, who blushed "- did something REALLY stupid."

McGonagall narrowed her eyes at all of them. "Very well," she said eventually. "Twenty points each from Gryffindor from being out of bounds after curfew."

"Professor!" James started, "Come on, you -"

"I would expect better from _you,_ Mr Potter," McGonagall said sharply, "and from you as well, Miss Evans." Lily's flush deepened. "Head Boy and Head Girl, I never…"

McGonagall's eyes lit upon their joined hands and her expression became one of almost feline satisfaction. "Well," she said after a moment. "Head Boy and Head Girl. I shall have to inform the Headmaster." She smiled slightly, "It will make a lovely story for your children."

"Oh my god," Lily said, dropping her face into James's shoulder. He snickered and leaned his cheek against her hair.

"Right then," Sirius said, yawning and stretching his arms upwards before dropping one around Remus's shoulders in a gesture that held far less casual camaraderie than he apparently thought. "It would appear that I am a free agent once again."

"Yes, Mr Black," McGonagall's tone turned bitingly ironic. "Until the next Muggle-born witch comes knocking." Sirius blanched, fingers tightening reflexively on Remus's upper arm.

Their Head of House looked back at Peter, and frowned slightly. "I don't doubt your intentions, Mr Pettigrew," she said quietly, "But there is a muggle aphorism that would apply here."

Peter wrinkled his nose and watched McGonagall's gaze cool. "But perhaps, enough of that," she said. "You will serve a detention for stealing from Professor Slughorn's stores," Peter hung his head, accepting his fate. "And please, Mr Pettigrew," her exasperation wasn't tempered by the amusement that her voice held when admonishing the others, "Try and just _think_ a little more next time."

He nodded, biting his tongue, hating the others for not speaking up for him, but then James clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright old man," he said quietly, "Let's get back to the Tower, shall we?"

They filed out of McGonagall's office, suitably chastised but not nearly as miserable as the troupe that had left Dumbledore's earlier in the day.

"Going to be awkward to explain to everyone," James said eventually, after they had all shuffled their feet and looked bashfully at one another for a few seconds. "Evans throwing you over for me, that is." He looked at Sirius, gauging his reaction.

"I doubt anyone will be that surprised," Remus said mildly. "You are much better suited to one another."

Sirius affected offense, "How _dare_ you, Moony, wound my poor, fragile ego -"

"You can thank me whenever you like," Peter interjected, trying to keep his annoyance from making its way into his voice. "For, you know, making sure you didn't all get your hearts broken."

James grinned, ruffling the back of his hair with the hand that wasn't circled about Lily's waist. "Maybe you should be best man at the wedding, mate," he said, and Peter experienced a moment of joyful surprise before -

"Prongs, you already swore that we would _all_ be your best men," Sirius said. "I don't think I could take any further disappointment after having been cast off by your delightful fiancée." He grinned evilly at Lily, who rolled her eyes at him.

Peter tried to smile, tried to hide his disappointment, but obviously something showed on his face because Lily sighed and stepped away from James. "I might not like the way you went about it, Pete," she said, "But you _did_ stop me from doing something thoroughly stupid -"

"Let the record state that I object to that phrasing," Sirius said, before Remus got his hand around his mouth.

"- so _thank you_ ," Lily finished, rolling her eyes at Sirius even as she wrapped her arms around Peter.

"Well I'm glad you don't think marrying me is stupid," James murmured from behind them, and Lily pulled away from Peter to cast an eye over her newly-minted fiancé.

"I never said that." She smiled mischievously. "I still think you're an idiot."

James made a choking noise of objection, and Lily squeezed Peter's hand before she dropped it to turn and loop her arms around James's neck. "But now you're _my_ idiot," she said, cocking her head to look up at him. "Reckon you can keep me safe, oh pureblood husband of mine?" she teased.

"That, or die trying," James replied, grinning wide and bright and delighted.

* * *

 **A/N:** I am astonished and delighted (D-E-L-I-G-H-T-E-D) to say that this little nugget won Judge's Favourite, Best Humour, and Most True to Canon Character in the Marriage Law Wordsmiths & Betas One Shot Competition (run by Wandlore Wordsmiths & Betas). Thank you so much to everyone who voted for it - it also came runner-up for Fan Favourite and Best Stand-alone One Shot. I am considering writing a longer Marauders-era piece, so let me know if that would be something you'd be interested in.

Also special thanks to **oblivionbaby** (you're amazing!) for encouraging me to enter!


	25. 25: Secrets

_**Secrets**_

 _Pairing: PottGrass (Harry Potter x Daphne Greengrass)_

 _Universe: Some sort of mad semi-Venetian AU_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

 _Secrets are currency,_ her mother always told her. _Guard your secrets, keep them close, Daphne, or else -_

 _Or else what?_ she wants to ask, but her mother has been dead for years, and now Daphne has more secrets than she knows what to do with.

The first (and wasn't it the root of all that followed?) was this: that they had played together as children.

Lady Potter had been new to the city, unfamiliar with its ways, and so she had come to the Ca' d'Erbe to sip Gillywater and be instructed in subtleties by Daphne's mother. Lord Potter was the heir to an old house, with a seat at Court, but he had married a woman of no breeding.

"You'd never know it, of course," Daphne's mother said quietly, as she combed her daughter's golden hair. "But she will not be allowed to forget it, nonetheless."

The boy would come with his mother, small and dark-haired, quiet behind the flash of his glasses, but once his smile was coaxed out of hiding it held the sun inside it. Daphne would wait impatiently by the windows, leaping to her feet with such excitement when she saw the approaching gondola that the footmen laughed.

"Behave," her mother would say, before the two children disappeared into the upper levels of the Palazzo, or among the exotic plants that Daphne's father grew in the courtyard. The admonition would always be tempered by a smile, an indulgent, knowing look shared between the two women.

The second secret: they would have been married now, or at least betrothed. These things were settled young, in this city, and Lady Potter had learned its ways well enough to follow them.

They had played, once, at husband and wife. "I've seen my parents do it," Daphne had whispered to him, and he had blushed to the roots of his hair.

"I don't - what do I -"

She had leaned and pressed her lips to his; five years old, and playing, and they had both wrinkled their noses and made noises of disgust. And yet when she thinks of it now...

"May I kiss you?" Draco had asked when they were twelve, and she had let him, but it was not the same. "We're each other's first kiss," he had smirked, and Daphne had smiled, demurred, and not corrected him. A third secret, kept hidden away.

It was the coup, of course; the old Duke deposed and executed, his most loyal followers summarily slain by the Pretender.

The Potters had been the last, the most vocal, the staunchest defenders of the Duke. The Pretender had gone himself to their Palazzo, had poled his own gondola along canals that glimmered petulantly beneath a clouded night sky. He had slain Lord Potter, had slain his lovely, clever wife, but something had gone wrong and the boy had escaped, and the Pretender, weakened almost to death, had disappeared.

She has heard whispers, since, that the boy lives still within the city walls, but she has never seen him. She asked Master Snape once but he sneered at her and made her practice twice as hard in punishment.

These dancing lessons: secret too. _Don't tell,_ her mother's voice whispers in her ear. _Wield your secrets as you would a knife -_

When she asked Hermione if she had heard of him the girl's eyes had widened, and she had hissed at Daphne to be quiet.

"How do you know that name?" she had asked her, the edges of springy curls working their way free from under her cap. Daphne had blushed without really knowing why, ducking her chin into the collar of the boy's shirt that she wore as a man strode past them, holding his purse tightly. Two more street rats, haunting one of the narrow calli.

Another secret, the path that her feet take across the rooftops, the boy's clothes stashed under an oilskin. The shape of the city at night.

"I remember him, from when I was very young," she had answered eventually, and Hermione had looked at her askance, obviously hearing something else in Daphne's voice.

A tiny slice of the secret shared, a sliver thinner than the crescent moon that lit their steps as they made their way through the market district. "Sister McGonagall will kill me for telling you," Hermione had said softly, "But we call him the Boy Who Lived for a reason."

 _Secrets for secrets._ Daphne had nodded, had folded this one up small and held it close to her chest.

She sighs at the memory, at the leap of her heart when Hermione had confirmed that he was alive. Evening light the rosy colour of peach flesh bounces and dazzles off the broad back of the Grand Canal as she gazes out of the window of the Malfoy Palazzo. Daphne longs for the tartness of fresh fruit stolen from the market carts, grimaces at the too-sweet ice in her hand.

She's too hot, and so she climbs the stairs away from the party, certain that she won't be missed. In the years since he kissed her Draco has grown bored of her quietness, of her refusal to preen and flirt, and now his attention has focused on Astoria instead. She watches their pale heads bending together as she crosses the upper gallery, and feels nothing.

Up again, and she is in the family's private rooms. It is quiet up here, and cool, and Daphne is just about to relax on one of the overstuffed couches when she hears a slight noise from the next room, which she knows is Lord Malfoy's study.

The door opens soundlessly when she pushes it, and she pauses, shocked, in the doorway. A man is rifling through the large desk; a man wearing a long cloak, a hat and a mask, like most of the men downstairs at the ball, and yet there is a shabbiness, a comfort in the way that he wears this outfit, that tells her he has not put it on for amusement.

"What are you doing?" Daphne asks, and the man jerks upright, staring at her from behind his disguise.

His eyes are green, but she notes nothing else before he makes a quick movement, leaping around the desk towards her - only Daphne is faster, dancing out of his reach, whipping the stiletto from her hair and holding it against his throat.

"Ah," he says, the edges of his eyes tightening, and she knows that he is frowning behind the mask. "I didn't think that there would be anyone up here."

"You thought wrong," Daphne replies, trying to make herself sound arch and superior, but worries that she has come off prim.

"Where do I know you from?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at him. She can't shake the sense of familiarity. He doesn't look nearly as concerned as he should with a stiletto point jabbing at his adam's apple, and Daphne finds that she isn't sure whether to be irritated or charmed by his nonchalance.

He shrugs. "I really couldn't say."

His eyes glitter at her, emerald green, lovelier than any of the jewels that fill her father's coffers.

"Well, Lady Greengrass," he murmurs after a moment, and there's something about the shape of his mouth around her name that makes her breath come short. He lifts his hand, runs one leather-clad finger along the blade of the knife. "You appear to have me at a disadvantage."

She wants to laugh; wants to demand how he knows her name. "You're here to steal from Lord Malfoy," she says, and the obviousness of it makes her want to cringe.

 _Well deduced, Daphne._

He gives a nod small enough not to tempt the blade against his skin. The way he's looking at her is doing odd things to her pulse, and so Daphne tries to lace her voice with steel. "I'm not letting you rob my hosts."

"Because you're clearly enjoying the ball immensely." His eyes move over her face, and _there_ , again, the sense of recognition. _I know you_ , Daphne thinks, before realising with a jolt that he is looking at her mouth.

"You'll understand, of course, my lady, that I cannot leave here with nothing to show for my efforts."

Her heart leaps in her chest and her hand twitches, the knife point nicking against stubble. She only hesitates for a moment but it is long enough for him to bat her hand aside, wrap his arms around her and press his mouth to hers.

Twelve years, or thereabouts, and they were children then, but she knows - as soon as his mouth is on hers _she knows_ , and she has dropped the knife, has fastened her fingers tight around his biceps. She opens her mouth, thinking to say his name, but then his tongue is flicking across hers, tasting of black tea and burnt sugar, riches beyond imagining. She runs her hands down his back, feeling the broad sweep of muscle tapering from his shoulders to his hips.

And then her hands are empty, and he is across the room, standing on the windowsill. Something twinkles, dangling from his hand, and Daphne raises her hand to her neck, feels the absence of the diamond choker. _That -_

"How dare you!" she says, trying to make her tone appropriately outraged while also determined not to look at his mouth; at the way his reddened, swollen lips now stretch back into a grin.

"I told you," he says, eyes dancing, "I can hardly leave here empty-handed. I have a reputation to uphold." There is a pause as they look at one another, and she watches the line of blood inching towards his collar.

"That necklace isn't particularly valuable," she says eventually. "There's a lot more here worth stealing."

She thinks that his gaze might sear a mark on her skin. "I can see that, my lady." A flash of teeth, white in his pink mouth. "Perhaps I'll rob your father next."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** For tumblrer **belle-delesque** who simply wanted Haphne [*cough* PottGrass *cough*]. This took a while because there was just SO MUCH I wanted to do with it once I had the idea, so err...you heard it here first: **Prince of Thieves** , a mini-fic of around 25k words, is coming soon..._


	26. 26: Professional Distance

_**A/N:** This is a continuation of **Sally Drabbles Chapter 9: Close Enough**. Maybe read that first?_

* * *

 _ **Professional Distance**_

 _Pairing: Percy Weasley x Hermione Granger_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

It started with the line that a tear drew across her cheek, or maybe it was the low lamplight of the stacks catching upon her skin.

It could have been the way that her hair sprung free of its plait to curl against the back of her neck, surprisingly soft-looking.

Perhaps it was the neat shape of her waist in the dress, or the shadows pooled along the exposed sweep of her collarbone.

There was a chance that it was the press of her hand against her mouth, or the tidy stack of papers that she held, or the way that she had managed to keep her sobs entirely silent.

But really it was the tear – a line of gleaming vulnerability on a face that he had only ever known to be strong, and he had felt a little tug of longing that had built itself into a cup of tea, and an offer of a smile.

It had taken such a long time, with the Ministry, with the War, for him to accept that he had been wrong, and he had been so _annoyed_ with her for much of that. For being so clever, for making him think perhaps he wasn't the only one. For challenging him, for refusing to listen. For being right all along.

 _For not choosing you_ , a little part of him whispered, though he shrugged it away as he watched her swipe at the tears and offer him a watery smile.

He found her the records that she had been so fruitlessly seeking, and made a mental note to re-catalogue them when she returned the parchments. "Not much for Creature respect, in the eighteenth century," he murmured, then when she cocked her head curiously he felt himself emboldened. "Ignorance can be just as damaging as intolerance." Her dark eyes warmed, and she offered him a smile over the lip of the mug.

Percy could feel heat rising in his cheeks, the legacy of red hair and fair skin betraying him as it always had, and he dipped his head, turning on his heel to leave her in peace when she called after him. "Thank you!"

The light in her face seemed to come from within, the same glow that she had had since she was a child, sitting down at the Gryffindor table and holding forth immediately on Transfiguration with such eager brilliance that it had been almost impossible to think that she was the same age as Ronald, whose greatest passions were mashed potatoes and the Chudley Cannons.

He catalogued the look of her with a quick flick of his eyes, and held the feeling of her smile inside himself for days.

 **OOOOO**

"Library Weasel," drawled a quiet, patrician voice, and he felt his shoulders tense slightly.

It had been nearly two months, and he'd expected Harry, or maybe Ron, but now that he thought about it this actually made much more sense.

"Mr Malfoy," he said, trying to keep his tone pleasant as he looked up from the history of the latter Goblin Wars that he was translating from old Occitan.

Tricky things, fourteenth-century romance languages. Possessive pronouns were so easy to mistranslate, and there was no way to determine between 'he' and 'it' much of the time. Funny how a minor adjustment could make such a difference to the historical recording. It had taken him a long time to learn courage, but at least he had learned subtlety along the way.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't wish to pry," Malfoy said, pale eyes drifting languidly across the spines of the books ranged above Percy's desk. "But Granger seems to enjoy surrounding herself with idiots, with a single notable exception -" here pausing to offer a self-satisfied smirk - "and I would hate to think that she was continuing the habit just when I've started to train her out of it."

 _Careful_. _Once a snake…_

"I don't know what you're talking about," Percy said evenly, meeting the challenge of Malfoy's gaze.

The other wizard's lips pursed, and he raised a single, pale eyebrow. "Funny, because apparently you're helping her with a research project into _mermaids_ , only I looked, and the next Mermish delegation isn't for another eighteen months, and while we all know that she's supremely organised…"

Malfoy's voice trailed away, eyes holding Percy's steadily.

What would his brothers do? Bill, Charlie, George, _Fred_ …

 _Be brave_.

"I've no intention of being an idiot about this," he offered, watching Malfoy's face. He smiled, unexpectedly crooked and warm.

"I was worried that it was a family trait," he said, "After the palaver with King Weasel."

Percy grimaced at the nickname. _It was so stupid_ , she'd whispered to him late one evening, their heads close together in a quiet corner of a Muggle pub, the last of a bottle of red wine sat on the table. _We work so much better as friends, why we ever even thought…_

 _He won't mind?_ Percy had asked, part of him sad to think that she knew Ron so much better than he did.

 _I think he'll be happy for us_ , she replied, dancing her fingertips over his knuckles.

"I think that's over and done with," he said to Malfoy now. "And I'm not Ronald."

"No." Cool appraisal. "You're certainly not." All at once the man's entire demeanour brightened, and Percy watched him with faint alarm before he felt a gentle hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"Draco." Hermione's voice had an edge to it that, had it been directed at him, would have made Percy deeply nervous, but Malfoy just grinned that crooked smile at her. "What are you doing down here?"

"Discussing the histories of the Goblin Wars, Granger," he replied, "Whatever else?"

He tipped Percy a barely perceptible wink, then tapped the parchment laid on the desk. "You know, I'm fairly sure that translating 'el' as 'he' changes the designation of the Goblins in this particular piece of history to beings, which -" Malfoy's smile went small and gleeful as Percy glared at him, "- would mean that the Goblins still have a legal claim to the territories ceded in the 1367 treaty."

"You did _what_?" Hermione squeaked, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at the translation. Percy tried to pull it away from her but she had already pinned it to the desk with one hand, squinting at his small, neat penmanship.

"It's nothing," he mumbled, staring daggers at Malfoy's retreating back. "It's a tiny difference, and anyway it's a correct translation, even if it isn't true to the spirit of the original document."

"It's very subtle, yes." Hermione looked up, her eyes sparkling. "But if this document ever gets used to establish legal precedent, the Being rights are there, plain and simple." Her smile shrank slightly as she considered him, "How often do you do things like this?"

Percy half-shrugged, lifting a hand to rub the sore spot between his shoulders. "When I can. Getting these rights recognised in new legislation would take forever, so I figured why not just rewrite the old stuff?" Hermione was still staring at him with an odd expression, so he continued to talk in a nervous rush: "Most wizards are so lazy about records that even if it occurred to them to question something small like this they probably wouldn't bother to go back to the originals. It just seems more efficient to ease the path for progr-"

He found his words cut off abruptly by the press of her lips against his, her hand clasping the back of his neck as she slid herself into his lap. Percy felt almost breathless, reminded of the first time he had kissed her, when she had practically dared him to. Somehow she had mastered the art of being boldly demanding, and Percy, never usually demonstrative, found himself only too happy to accommodate her, pressing one hand to her lower back and twisting the fingers of the other into her lovely hair, drawing her closer to him as she breathed, "You are _brilliant_ , Percy Weasley, and I lo-"

A throat was cleared nearby and they sprang apart guiltily, Percy peering over Hermione's shoulder into the disapproving glare of the Head Record Keeper.

"Mr Weasley," said the elderly wizard, "Miss Granger, if you cannot maintain a professional distance from one another when using the Archives then I must insist that you relocate yourselves _elsewhere._ "

Hermione stifled a giggle against the crook of Percy's neck, then pressed her lips chastely to his cheek as she scrambled out of his lap. "I'll see you later," she whispered, turning to leave.

Before she disappeared around the end of the row Percy's mind broke free of the usual fuddled state that her lips tended to leave him in, and he frowned as he called after her, "What were you going to say, before?"

Turning to look at him, Hermione smiled and shrugged, "Nothing. Tell you later."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** This was by request for dear darling **jasperandgemma,** a person of wealth and taste and excellence, who asked for "a tiny continuation of Hermione&Library Weasel drabble". I'm enjoying this so if someone requests it, I'm not averse to further additions..._


	27. 27: Dark & Stormy

**_Dark & Stormy_**

 _ **Pairing:** Tom Riddle Jr x Ginny Weasley_

 _ **Universe:** Some sort of magical AU..._

 _ **Rating:** MA_

* * *

The bar was hot, and crowded, and magically scented throughout with something rich and smoky that she assumed was the new cologne that Blaise was launching. Ginny hated these parties - she was always dragged along, as apparently having one of the Harpies Chasers attend meant that you were almost certain to get a mention in the society pages.

Sure enough, Blaise had swooped on her as soon as she arrived - "Ginny you doll!" - as cameras flashed and emitted purple smoke all around them. "Just smile for thirty seconds, darling," he murmured in her ear, "And I'll make sure you have free drinks all night."

"Gin and tonic," she hissed back, through teeth gritted in a rictus grin, "And they'd better be doubles."

Now, she leaned against a pillar in the middle of the room, nursing a sweating glass and trying her best not to scowl just in case there was a roving photographer in the room. Much as she didn't want to be there, it wouldn't be fair to Blaise to _look_ like she didn't want to be there.

There was a ripple in the crowd nearby, heads turning as people stepped aside, trying to get a glimpse of someone moving past. Ginny found herself jostled away from her pillar, squeezed between bodies. "For the love of -" she started to mutter, and then found herself tripping in her heels, about to go arse over tit, flinging out an arm to catch herself.

Her hand connected with something warm, and solid, and emptied the glassful of gin over it.

Strong fingers closed on her waist, holding her upright, and she looked up into a pair of dark blue eyes and a wry half-smile.

"That," Tom Riddle murmured in a low voice which sent a bolt of heat through her insides, "was my favourite tie."

"Oh," Ginny said numbly, feeling her brain stutter in response to his crisp accent, to the way that he held her almost flush against his damp, juniper-scented chest.

She could hear mutters in the crowd under the heavy throb of the music, and wondered how long it would take for - there, a flashbulb went off, and she could see the headline now - _HARPIES HARLOT CAUGHT IN CLINCH WITH ENIGMATIC FILMSTAR!_

 _Fuck you, Rita Skeeter,_ Ginny thought, not even needing to wait for publication to know that whatever article came out of this would make her want to strangle the woman.

"I'm sorry," she said aloud. "About your tie, I mean." She tried to gesture at his chest but realised that he was holding her too close, and she just ended up brushing a hand across thin cotton and firm pectoral.

"Ruined I think," he said smoothly, still staring at her, his arm still tight around her, and she had seen his films, had heard his voice a thousand times, but it still never failed to stun her how blue his eyes were, how his hair actually carried that polished sheen, how -

"I'll have to think of a way to punish you for it," he murmured, derailing her train of thought.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling tight. "What are you drinking?" she asked weakly.

His smile widened, his teeth catching the low light. "Dark and Stormy," he said.

He let her buy him a drink, and she let him back her into a corner in the VIP area, away from prying eyes.

She let his fingers drift up her arm, play gently with the strands of her hair that had come undone from her messy fishtail plait. Let him move the palm of his hand to cup her jaw, lean his mouth down to her ear, and whisper, "Shall we be going?"

He let her finish her gin and tonic.

 **OOOOO**

Tom's flat was modern, all smoked glass and chrome and polished concrete, and he stalked through it with predatory grace, leading her up a floating staircase to - his study?

Ginny flicked her eyes around the room, at the large collection of books arranged across the shelves, at the Louis-style armchair set in the middle of a white sheepskin rug.

"Why don't you take a seat?" he said, gesturing carelessly at the chair as he flicked his wand to summon glasses and a decanter from a nearby shelf.

"Where are you going to sit?" Ginny asked, as she lowered herself onto the chair, but his only answer was a small laugh as he handed her a glass and moved to stand behind her, loosening his tie as he went. Ginny took a sip of the excellent Firewhiskey, feeling his hand brush the hair from her neck and shivering with want, then jumped as the gin-stained tie looped itself around her wrist, tightening until her arm was held securely to that of the chair.

"What are you doing?" she spluttered, as he took the glass from her free hand, securing that arm gently but firmly to the chair with a deft _incarcerous_.

His breath was hot at the edge of her jaw. "I told you, that tie was my favourite. It's only fair that you pay for its untimely demise. Now," his teeth closed gently on her earlobe, and she gasped, the muscles of her core clenching involuntarily. "If you want me to stop, you need only say."

"Say what?" Ginny breathed, flexing her arms in their bindings. She felt him laugh against her neck.

"Say..." he hummed, clearly thinking. "Say 'Tonic'."

Ginny rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the smile that started to curl across her lips. "Fine." He laughed again, before she felt him shift away, and shivered at the sudden absence of his warmth at the back of her neck. "If only your fans knew about this," she said, as he prowled around to face her. "I can see the headlines now: ' _Dashing romantic lead is secretly a kinky fuck'_."

He laughed, a full, rich sound. "I'd love to see the _Prophet_ run with that. And my fans don't know about this," he leaned down, resting just enough of his weight on her forearms to cause them to ache slightly. "Because I like to keep my private life private." His mouth lifted on one side, "So, how would you like me to punish you, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny gave an inelegant snort and lifted her foot, pressing the stiletto heel to his chest to push him away. "What makes you think I'll take punishment lightly?" Tom blinked, his eyebrows raising, and she felt her neck prickle at the way his gaze darkened.

"Oh," he murmured. "I think you can be persuaded to enjoy it." Slowly, he raised a hand and closed his fingers around her ankle, holding it as he knelt before her.

Ginny was breathing hard, not daring to blink as he held her there. Very carefully, without moving his eyes from hers, Tom removed the shoe and dropped it to the floor, plucking at her stocking to pull it over her toes. Once her foot was bare he lifted it, turning his head just slightly to press his lips to the arch, stroking his thumb over the spot where his mouth had been as she shivered.

"Now," he said softly, "Do you think that I can make you behave yourself?"

"Maybe," Ginny breathed, barely trusting her voice.

Tom's pupils were wide pools of inky black, his gaze cold fire and his mouth a vicious smirk as he moved her ankle to his shoulder, leaning in so that her leg was forced to lift and stretch. When she winced his smile widened, shark-like.

"You know," he said, tipping his head and rubbing his sandpaper cheek against her bare shin. "That really was my favourite tie." His tone was guileless but his eyes were a dark sparkle on hers, and Ginny gasped in surprise when his hand left the arm of the chair to pinch the underside of on breast, hard, through the thin silk of her dress.

"Apologise," he purred, fingers skimming up to cup her jaw, his thumb pressing against her throat.

"I'm sorry," she smirked, then cried out as he bit the tendon at the side of her neck.

"Like you mean it," he said, his tone almost conversational, before his lips ghosted their way across the bruise.

"I'm sorry, Tom," she gasped, and as soon as the words had left her mouth he moved like a snake striking, pressing his lips to hers with almost brutal force. Ginny moaned into his mouth, admitting his tongue and licking against him.

She pulled against the bindings on her arms but they were immovable, and with her head swimming she didn't want to attempt undoing them by magic. Instead she bit into his plump bottom lip, hard enough to make him hiss, and felt a thrill of triumph before he pushed her leg up further, the muscle protesting, the low, burning pain of it somehow a delightful contrast to the building throb between her legs.

He leaned in closer, so that the hard plane of his stomach was pressed right up against her soaked underwear, and Ginny gasped again when she felt his muscles flex, felt the corresponding shudder rip through her.

Tom took his hand from her neck and smoothed it up the still-stockinged leg that was extended beside him, thumb playing over her garter and moving to the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. Ginny wriggled at his teasing and Tom laughed into her mouth, breaking his lips from hers and moving the tip of his nose along her cheekbone, nuzzling into her. His voice was a throaty murmur against her ear. "I'm not going to let you come until you've learned your lesson."

 _Fuck_ , Ginny thought, already feeling the tremors in her legs, the flush creeping up her neck. _Fuck, oh fuck._

His thumb completed its tortuous journey up her leg, rubbing with terrible gentleness against her clit, and she whimpered, feeling the heat of his breath as he laughed. "Are we clear?" he breathed into the crook of her neck, and she knew that she was lost.

"Yes," she muttered, and he chuckled, pausing a moment to rip her underwear away, and then his thumb returned to continue its cruel ministrations as he slipped first one, then two fingers inside her, moving them in a slow, rhythmic, beckoning gesture.

"Would you like to come, Ginevra?" he whispered, and she could answer only in a moan, feeling herself tensing and climbing and almost there, and then Tom's fingers were gone, and she gave a cry of protest, sagging in the chair as he stepped away. She let her head loll to the side, watching as he removed his jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs and then stripped off his shirt with casual efficiency.

His skin was pale, his torso sculpted perfection, and Ginny felt her mouth begin to water as he stepped towards her again, nudging her legs apart and then slowly kneeling, his hands gripping her thighs. "Where were we?" he asked, and when she jerked her leg to try and kick him he barked a laugh, leaning in and licking across her slit, letting the point of his tongue linger on the humming nub of her clit for just a moment - _just a moment_ \- and then he was leaning back and Ginny gave a frustrated cry.

"I'm sorry!" she said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just - _jus_ t -"

"What?" he asked innocently, resting his cheek against her thigh and batting his long lashes at her.

"Godric, _fuck_ ," Ginny swore, "Just, _sweet Merlin_ , just fuck me already!"

"If you insist," Tom smiled, gripping her behind the knees and tugging her forward, and she felt the bonds fall away from her arms as she slipped towards him, Tom rocking his weight back to lie on the rug as she came to kneel above him, his hard length pressing up against her through the fabric of his trousers.

"Fuck you Tom," she snarled as she opened his belt buckle with a flick of her fingers, pulling his trousers down his legs as his cock sprang free, ready and begging for her attention.

"I thought that was the point," he murmured, then gave a hiss as she drew her finger across his tip, lifting it to her mouth and licking the moisture from it as she shimmied upwards to line herself up to him.

"You arseho - _oh_ ," she gasped as he thrust upwards, entering her with almost brutal precision.

"What was that?" he asked, pushing himself to a seated position so that Ginny was held in his lap, his mouth against her breasts, filled with the feel of him, the smell of him, the taste -

She moaned as he yanked on her hair, as he nipped his way across the delicate skin of her cleavage. "I said," Ginny panted, "that you're an _arsehole._ "

"Miss Weasley," he murmured, "Ginevra. Such language." He moved then, throwing her back onto the rug and withdrawing from her and Ginny nearly screamed as she was left without his touch, but then he was leaning over her again. "Open your mouth," Tom commanded, and Ginny obeyed, scowling up at him as he inserted the tie between her teeth, tying it at one side so that she was gagged.

"That's better," he said. "Now, where was I?"

He entered her again with merciless precision, and Ginny arched up off the floor, feeling as though her eyes must be rolling back in her head, able to taste the gin still on his tie. She brought her hands to his back and let her nails score lines across his skin as he drove himself into her, again and again, and she could feel it, finally, could hear his breath growing ragged as her own came short and sharp and _there_ and _yes_ and _more_ and _Tom_ and -

It felt like a starburst going off inside her head, inside her belly, and she gave a guttural cry that was muffled by the tie. Above her, Tom gasped, and Ginny felt her muscles clench tight about him, felt the pulse of his climax inside her as he dropped to his forearms, his teeth closing on the knot of the tie and pulling it free.

" _Circe_ ," Ginny breathed as Tom removed the gag completely, balling the silk in his fist and tossing it across the room. The smug smile he gave her was all the provocation Ginny needed, and she reared up to bite his full bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood.

" _Fuck_ ," Tom swore, scowling down at her, and it was Ginny's turn for smugness.

"I think," she said, turning her head slightly to give him a coy, sideways look, "That I'm going to need to ruin more of your things." Tom's scowl started to dissolve, the edges of his mouth quirking upwards, and Ginny felt his cock twitch where it was still inside her.

"Is that so?" he asked, his voice soft, menacing with desire.

"Oh yes," she whispered, lifting her head to brush the words against his lips. "I think you're going to need to punish me a lot."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Written for tumblr user **Parkynson** who wanted "Tom, or Ginny, your call, spills a Gin and Tonic on the other's shirt." It ended up being a tie...my bad xx_


	28. 28: I Dare You

_**I Dare You**_

 _ **Pairing:** Theomione_

 ** _Universe:_** _Hogwarts, Seventh-year AU (no wizarding war)_

 ** _Rating:_** _T (language)_

* * *

The game starts with a pretty morning. A pretty box. And a pretty girl.

Theo can hear Potter and Weasley's approach from all the way across the lawn, and he tries to suppress his groan of annoyance that the spring day's peace has been shattered, and by Tweedledum and Tweedlefuck no less. They're arguing about something, and it isn't until they're nearly under the tree that he's sitting in that he realises it's him and nearly falls out of it.

"I just think," Weasley is saying ( _Unprecedented_ , Theo thinks to himself) "that we should go bigger in order to get them back for the pixies. You know," he pauses, and Theo, unwilling to risk giving himself away by leaning over to see through the budding foliage, has to content himself with imagining the pained look on Weasley's face as he tries to voice a coherent idea. "Something that'll really wipe the smug looks off of their stupid snakey faces."

Theo catches himself smirking at this, and isn't sure whether to find that amusing or not. He turns over the box in his hands as he listens for whatever fool plan Potter is surely about to come out with, but is surprised when a quieter, female voice speaks up.

He hadn't realised that she was with them, but doesn't know why it comes as a shock.

"You should do something subtle," she says. "Nott was - the pixies were clever, it was weeks before you figured it out."

"Well, no," Potter says, "It was weeks before we told _you_."

"Yeah," says Weasley. "You figured it out 'Mione -" Theo wants to laugh at this, but he allows himself nothing more than a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth "- so why don't you tell us what sort of prank we should pull to get back at them?"

"Hmm," is all she replies, and Theo catches himself imagining the shape of her mouth as she makes the noise, lips pursing into a perfect rosebud. His fingers tighten on the box that his mother gave him - beautiful, as everything that she ever wanted him to have was, though as usual it is nothing more than a trinket.

"Why don't you let me think about it?" Granger is saying, and he hears the Gryffindor double prats murmur their agreement, and then incredibly they are saying goodbye to her, heading off across the grounds to the broomsheds to practice falling from great heights or whatever it is they do to keep themselves amused.

Theo holds his breath. He hasn't heard her move - wonders if she is getting a book out and if so whether she will be settling in to read for long, because there's only a certain amount of time that one can spend perched in a tree for before it begins to become distinctly uncomfortable.

He's just thinking that maybe he could levitate himself until he's a safe distance away when a throat clears from somewhere below him.

"Nott."

Theo freezes. He still isn't breathing, and it's starting to make him feel a bit light-headed.

"Nott, are you coming down, or am I coming up?"

She would as well, he knows this. Fucking impetuous little Muggleborn, with her stupid hair and stupid face and stupid brain that's apparently the only one clever enough to work out that charming pixies to write rude messages on the bathroom mirror in the Seventh-year Gryffindor boys' dormitory for the last month was his idea.

Vaguely, he wonders if he gave himself away with the accuracy of his grammar.

"Last chance, Nott. Come and have a little chat, I _dare_ you."

Something about this makes him bristle. It's this new-found pertness; the confidence that she seems to have developed over the course of the last year or so. It isn't because of a boyfriend, he's fairly sure. He's heard that she'd stayed in touch with Krum since the Triwizard Tournament, but Blaise has been reliably informed by a cousin at Durmstrang that the whole thing rather petered out when the idiot Bulgarian decided to concentrate on a career in the US League.

Theo tries to forget the teasing light in Blaise's eyes as he had asked just _why_ he was so interested in the love life of Hermione Granger, Queen of Muggleborns, as he finds himself scrambling his legs over the branch and dropping out of the tree to stand before Her Majesty Herself.

She's wearing the exact little moue of amusement that he had both dreaded and secretly hoped she would be.

"You _dare_ me, Granger?" Theo asks, relieved that he sounds as insouciant as he had been aiming to. Absently, he goes to adjust his cuffs, but finds the action impeded by the trinket box that he still holds in one hand.

"That's pretty," she says, not bothering to respond to the question.

"Yes, it is rather," Theo agrees, holding it up so that the inlaid shell pieces catch the morning sunlight. "Japanese raden-work. My mother gave it to me." He sees a flicker in her face and remembers their Care of Magical Creatures class - remembers that she knows his mother is dead. Some unnameable impulse seizes him, and he finds his hand extending towards Granger to let her look more closely. He catches himself just as she reaches out to take it, and his other hand closes over hers.

Theo does his best to hide his shock that he is touching her, years of distance and disdain suddenly falling away with a gesture that, for all that it felt careless, now seems weighty and important. Her eyebrows have quirked together, and she is looking at him with a question in her awful, lovely, deep-brown eyes.

"I believe that I owe you a dare," he says quietly, and she stills, before she tips her chin upwards.

"Is that so?" she asks, and Theo wants to curse her and kiss her and pull her close and run as far away as he can.

"I dare you," he says instead, "To let Potter and Weasley get caught trying to prank me back."

Granger flushes, a bright, angry colour that fills him with satisfaction. "If you think for one second -"

"Here," he says, interrupting her to turn their joined hands over, and leaving the trinket box resting on her palm. "You can have this. Let it remind you of my victory."

"I dared you to come down from a fucking _tree_ -" she hisses, but Theo is already backing away, a smile of satisfaction threatening to unfold itself across his whole mouth.

"So you did," is all he says, as he turns to walk back up to the castle.

 **OOOOO**

He can hardly believe it when he sees Filch hauling Potter and Weasley through the Entrance Hall a week later, both of them covered in what looks like frogspawn, and clearly being marched up to the Headmaster's office.

Granger is doing a spectacular job of looking contrite and worried - she's even wringing her hands - but when he meets her eyes she flashes him the tiniest grin, and he finds himself offering her a slight nod.

When the owl-post delivers the box back to him the next morning, along with a neatly folded note, it is all that he can do not to look up at her. He settles for shaking out the parchment, quickly scanning the lines of small, neat script.

 _I dare you to announce to the gathered student body that you find Pansy Parkinson to have about as much brain as she does sexual morality._

Theo does look across the hall then; he is so astonished that for a moment he openly gapes. Granger smiles blandly at him, but there is no disguising the glint of victory in her eye as she sips her tea, even from across the room.

He can't let her win. He just _can't_.

It's only when Theo realises that he's standing up and has cleared his throat that he has a momentary flicker in his resolve not to be beaten, then he looks at Granger again and sees that she has gone completely still; that she is watching him with something very close to disbelief.

"Ladies and gentlemen -" Theo begins.

 **OOOOO**

She comes to see him in the Hospital Wing. He's sat on the edge of the bed, trying to blink away the residual dizziness caused by Pomfrey's businesslike _Episkey_ , and struggling not to be impressed by the strength of Pansy's right hook.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," Granger says softly, her eyes skating across Theo's face. The bruising will be gone in half an hour or so, but right now he imagines that it must look fairly impressive.

"You shouldn't underestimate me, Granger," he replies. "I had my pride to think of."

"But no one would have known!" she protests, her forehead creasing with perplexity, and Theo feels something uncomfortable squirm to life in his stomach as he considers his answer.

"You would have," he says finally, and Granger looks at him with equal parts shock and something that he doesn't want to name.

He throws her the trinket box, in the hope that it will stop her looking, and is surprised when she catches it. Clearly Potter isn't the only Gryffindor with decent reflexes. "Backchat Snape in Potions this afternoon," he says on a sudden whim. "I dare you."

Granger bites her lip, and he wants to growl with frustration. His father would have a conniption, he reminds himself. _And yet._

"This isn't very Slytherin of you," she says finally.

 _Cunning. Ambition._

"You just haven't figured out what I want yet," he says, as he pushes himself off the bed and brushes past her.

She smells like a garden where it's been raining: rose petals and sharp greenery.

 **OOOOO**

It keeps going over the next few weeks, the dares becoming more outlandish, harder to hide. Theo is fairly certain that Blaise and Draco know something is up, if their comments about 'lion-induced hysteria' are anything to go by, but any sting is removed as Draco rolls his eyes at him, as Blaise grins into his Transfiguration textbook once he sees that their remarks have hit home.

When Granger tells him to throw the match against Ravenclaw, Theo wants to scream at her; wants to grab her and shake her and wrap her in his arms and feel her quake against him.

Thirty minutes in and he's let himself be hit by four Bludgers, dropped the Quaffle twice and has just flown headlong into Draco right as he was about to dive for the Snitch, causing them both to plummet to the ground in a move reminiscent of Potter's usual flying style. A time-out is called and Theo stands, dusting himself down as he watches Hooch marching towards them. Before she can get close enough to start shouting he feels breath on the back of his neck, and there is a whisper in his ear: "I dare you to pull it back."

He turns but there's nobody there. _Potter's invisibility cloak,_ Theo thinks as he swings his leg over his broom and kicks back off into the sky.

He scores fifteen of their eventual nineteen goals, and when Draco finally catches the Snitch Theo looks down to see her grinning up at him, her face a bright spot between Potter and Weasley's matching glum expressions. He grins back, just for a moment, before he flies away to share in his housemates' adulation.

 **OOOOO**

"Get a question wrong," he murmurs, standing behind her in the queue to enter the Great Hall for their Transfiguration NEWT.

Granger spins, glaring at him, even as her fingers close around the box that he pushes into her hand.

"This is my _future_ , Nott, not some fucking -"

"One question," he says softly. "Just get one wrong, I dare you."

They're staring at each other, and he sees a glimmer of something in her gaze. He loves it when he can see her rising to one of his challenges, when he can watch her stunned disbelief morph into defiance, and then resolve.

Her jaw sets, a tiny tell, as she turns away from him, and he can't quite believe that she's going to do it; can't resist leaning to place his mouth beside her ear. "I would have thrown that match," he whispers, "if you hadn't changed your mind. You know I would have."

He's stood close enough that he feels her tremble against him as his lips brush the skin of her earlobe.

 **OOOOO**

The note, and the box, are waiting on his pillow after his last exam, and Theo pulls up short, staring at them. When he turns to look at Blaise the other wizard seems to be suddenly very interested in the pattern on his quilt. "Traitor," Theo mutters, and he hears Blaise snicker from behind him as he unfolds the note.

 _Meet me in the Astronomy Tower. 1am. I dare you._

He feels a shiver of anticipation, and turns to see Blaise and Draco watching him with small smiles. "Shut up," Theo says, smiling back.

 **OOOOO**

She's there when he arrives, her curls haloed in the moonlight, and he feels as though his heart might crash its way out of his chest at the sight of her.

Theo turns the box over in his fingers, then slips it into the pocket of her dressing gown, letting his hand linger in the warmth for a second.

Granger's hand brushes his when she reaches for the box, and Theo pulls his fingers back as though she has burned him. She pauses for a moment, tipping her head as though to consider him, and he can't make sense of her expression in the low light. His tongue feels somehow too big for his mouth, but he ignores the sensation.

"Spit off the edge," Theo says, laughing as her nose wrinkles with distaste. "Go on Granger, I dare you."

She rolls her eyes but turns, leaning against the balustrade as she hawks impressively, and then spits.

"Happy?" she asks, holding the box out to him. Theo takes it back, somehow comforted by the almost ritual nature of the exchange, but then startles when Granger loops her arms loosely around his neck. "Kiss me," she says. "I dare you."

Theo hesitates for a moment, and he sees triumph flare in her beautiful, caramel-coloured eyes. Triumph, and a terrible sort of disappointment.

"No," he says softly, his hand closing tight on her arm. She flushes and tries to shake him free, but Theo's grip is firm, unyielding. "If I'm going to kiss you, I want you to know that I mean it."

Granger stills in his grip. "How will I know?" she asks quietly. "How will I ever…" she scrunches her eyes closed in frustration, then opens them again, and Theo feels as though he could fall into their depths.

"Tell me you love me," he whispers, imagining himself cutting out his heart and laying it at her feet.

 _I dare you._

She shakes her head, and he feels momentarily sick before she replies: "Tell _me_ , because if I tell you first I'm afraid you'll think it's a game."

He isn't playing; hasn't been playing for a while now, but he looks into her eyes and sees her laid bare to him. Theo drops the trinket box, hears it shatter on the stone floor as he presses his mouth to hers.

"I love you," he murmurs.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Written in response to a prompt from **clausumcormeum** on tumblr, who wanted pranksters, but unfortunately asked for Dramione... I'm afraid this scenario just screamed Theo (both to me, much though I tried to deny it, and to a couple of trusted Alpha readers) so I hope you'll forgive the switch... The storyline is inspired by the film Love Me if You Dare (Jeux d'Enfants) which is a favourite, although there is an allusion to another great film in there too...points if you catch it. Xx Sally_


	29. 29: Brownie Points

_**Brownie Points**_

 ** _Pairing:_** _Hansy_

 ** _Universe:_** _Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 ** _Rating:_** _MA_

 ** _Note:_** _This was a christmas one-shot written as part of the **Quills & Parchment **Christmas contest **Under the Mistletoe** (see all the entries at __archiveofourown DOT org / collections / underthemistletoe). This_ _won Best Smut (aha), was runner-up for Best Pairing I Didn't Know I Needed, and the judges also awarded it Best Banter so all in all I was fairly pleased..._

 _The prompt for this story was by **LeanaM** , and was as follows: 'Pansy's organising a charity Quidditch match on Boxing Day. She's trying to enlist the famous Hero Who Refused To Die to join a team of other celebs and professional Quidditch players. Harry's not keen but Pansy can be very persuasive...'_

* * *

The door to Pansy's office cracked open, and Daphne's head of golden curls appeared around it.

"Hey, Pans," she sing-songed, shouldering her way in and holding out a small paper bag. "So I just _happened_ to pass Calumnia's Cakes on the way back from the Ministry and I thought -"

Pansy gave a groan and dropped her head into her hands, drowning out the rest of Daphne's words. "He said no again, didn't he?"

Daphne paused, blinking, then quickly smiled again. "I have good news and bad news."

"Salazar's fucking balls," Pansy sighed, "Remind me why I employed you?"

"Good news!" Daphne crowed, "I bought you a brownie, and he didn't say no."

Pansy lifted her head enough to shoot her friend a glare. "What's the bad news?"

Daphne's smile faded slightly. "I was really hoping we could stop at the good news," she said, shaking the bag still held in her outstretched hand. "Brownies!"

"Daph!" Pansy yelled.

"OK," Daphne nodded, her shoulders drooping. "The bad news is that he said," and here her voice dropped to a whisper, "Over his dead body would he help out Pansy fucking Parkinson."

"Ugh, Potter is such a _dick_ , " Pansy growled, grabbing her cloak and handbag and storming from the office, pausing only to snatch the brownies from Daphne on her way out.

 **OOOOO**

Pansy had her heels up on the desk and was leafing idly through a report on sales of cursed jewellery to Muggle antique dealers when the door swung open.

"What the -" Harry grimaced, then yelled over his shoulder, "Hestia! I need you to call pest control!"

Pansy grinned as the Carrow witch appeared behind him. "It's Tuesday, sir, so I'm Flora. Why do you need pest control?" she asked, with a slight grimace. "Is it that charmed Mistletoe again?"

"No," Harry said, his nose wrinkling as he gestured towards where Pansy sat, now swinging idly back and forth in the swivel chair. "My office appears to have a different sort of infestation."

Hestia (Pansy was fairly certain it was Hestia) leaned past his elbow, giving Pansy a once-over and then a tiny smile. "I'm sorry, Auror Potter," the little witch said, "but my mother had very strict rules: 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.' Let me know if you want tea!" she added gaily, as she closed the door on the pair of them.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his already ridiculous hair. "What," he asked wearily, "the _fuck_ are you doing in my office, Parkinson?"

"I'm here on behalf of the orphans of the Wizarding War, Potter," she said tartly, ignoring the way that he rolled his eyes. "Look," she said, falsely sweet, batting her eyelashes at him and holding up the bag that she'd taken from Daphne. "I even brought you a brownie." Harry snorted, turning away from her to shrug off his Auror robes, loosening the tie he wore underneath and unbuttoning his collar to reveal an extra couple of inches of dark five o'clock shadow. Pansy's mouth suddenly felt a little dry.

"I don't want a fucking brownie," Harry grumbled. "And I already told Daphne," he continued as he faced Pansy once more, hands on his hips as though to deliberately emphasise the way his lean torso tapered from his broad shoulders. "I don't want to be a part of some insane vanity pro-"

"It is _not_ a vanity project!" Pansy seethed, abruptly furious. "It's a fucking quidditch match! For _charity_!"

"Right," Harry scoffed, "Because the fact that it presents you as a bleeding heart and the darling of the social set has nothing to do with it _at all._ "

"For fuck's sake," Pansy snarled, pushing herself up from the chair and marching across the room to stab a finger into his chest (incidentally confirming that it was as firmly muscled as it looked under the tight cotton oxford). "It's not as though I'm asking you because I _want_ you there. But if Harry Potter, famous seeker and biggest fucking celebrity in Wizarding Britain _doesn't_ play, then not only do _I_ look like a complete twat but, news flash, _so do you_."

Harry caught hold of her wrist, his grip firm but not bruising. He was tall enough to loom over her and Pansy felt a surprising but not at all unpleasant frisson of heat at his proximity. "What if I already have plans?" he asked. "It's Boxing Day, after all."

"Plans?" Pansy sneered. "With who? You and Ginny Ginger split up months ago, and in any case she, along with most of your stupid friends, is already playing in the match, or at least coming along to supp-"

"I might have friends that you don't know about," Harry growled, and Pansy tossed her head with frustration, finally wrenching her arm free of his grasp and gesturing expansively around the room.

"Oh yes, because you're so _famed_ for your subtlety and discretion, Potter, I'm sure you've got _loads_ of secret friends." She folded her arms and raised a brow, ready for his next volley.

"Yeah?" Harry said. "Allow me to remind you, _Pansy_ , that _you're_ famed for being the Slytherbitch who wanted to hand me over to Voldemort"

"Ooh," Pansy smirked, " _Burn_." She leaned towards him, "I'm also famed for my philanthropic work, which would be a lot easier to accomplish if you would stop being an _arsehole_ and just agree to play in the bloody match!"

Harry swallowed, his gaze flicking downwards to where the swell of Pansy's breasts was pushed upwards by her still-folded arms. She nearly laughed with disbelief because surely, _surely_ -

She realised that she was staring at his mouth, and raised her eyes to find him giving her an appraising look. "What do I get," Harry asked, his voice suddenly gruff, "If I agree to play?"

"Not going to do it out of the goodness of your heart?" Pansy pouted. "My my, Potter, where _is_ your Christmas spirit?" she asked coyly, tossing her hair to one side in a way that she knew showed off the slender length of her neck. Harry didn't reply, but his eyes narrowed slightly, and Pansy deployed her best cat-that-got-the-cream smirk.

"I'd be grateful," she said huskily, reaching out to take hold of his tie, and sliding her fingers up the scarlet silk. When he didn't push her away Pansy smiled wider and took a step back, her bum hitting the edge of his desk. The tie stretched between them, and Harry cocked his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"How grateful?" he asked, stepping forward and planting his hands on the desk to either side of her hips. Pansy wanted to laugh at the unexpected discovery that Harry Potter had game, but she was distracted by the muscles of her lower abdomen clenching as he parted her legs with one of his.

"Oh," she said, moving her nose along the strong line of his jaw and then bringing her lips to his ear. " _Very_ grateful indeed."

"Interesting," Harry said, skimming his fingers up her spine to hold the nape of her neck, then leaning past her to press a button on his desk. " _Flora_ ," he said, placing an ironic emphasis on the name that told Pansy he was well aware of the twins' little joke. She felt a sudden thrill of fear that Harry was going to kick her out, that she might have just made a terrible fool of herself, before he continued. "Cancel my four o'clock, would you?"

"Absolutely, Auror Potter."

Pansy could hear the smirk in Hestia's voice, but she forgot to care when Harry returned his brilliant green gaze to hers. "We were discussing the matter of gratitude," he said, his polite tone belied by the way his hand was creeping up her thigh.

"We were," Pansy agreed, offering him a prim smile that was swiftly undermined as she looped her fingers through his belt to pull him flush against her. "And I was about to say that, _if_ you would agree to play in the match, then I'd be happy to _demonstrate_ my gratitude."

With seeker-quickness he had tugged down the zip at the back of her dress, his lips following the falling fabric over her décolletage. Before Pansy's brain had quite caught up with the motion she felt the heat of his mouth against the cup of her bra, his tongue dragging the lace across the hard bead of her nipple with a delicious friction that had her stifling a gasp.

"Potter," she choked out, twisting her fingers in his hair and pulling his head up to glare at him. " _Harry_. Are you going to play or not?"

He grinned at her, his pupils dark and dilated in a way that made her insides go molten. "Why Miss Parkinson," he said pleasantly, "You know, I think I might be free after all."

Pansy's sharp laugh was cut off as he brought his mouth to hers, his lips soft but firm, as insistent as his grip on her nape, on her thigh. Pansy sighed into his mouth, deftly working his belt buckle and then the button of his trousers, slipping her hand inside his briefs to take hold of (another pleasant surprise) his hard and not-inconsiderable length.

Harry's teeth closed on her lip as she started moving her hand, and then he hummed his approval as his fingers skimmed the top of her stocking, and moved further up.

His touch grazed against her sex, and Harry broke his mouth from hers to gave her a look that was part incredulity, part delight. "You're not wearing any underwear."

Pansy shrugged. "I rarely do," she purred, staring up at him from under her lashes. He stopped laughing when she pushed him away, grabbing his tie to tug him around the desk before shoving him roughly into the chair, the buttons of his shirt opening with a flick of her fingers.

When she hitched up her skirt and climbed atop him Harry grinned again, his hands rising to cup the plump smoothness of her arse. Pansy reached into his briefs to free him completely, and with Harry's firm grip steadying her she positioned herself above him.

"Now," she said, cocking her head and smiling her most shit-eating grin, "One last time. Are you going to play on Boxing Day?"

Harry's fingers flexed around her, his thumbs pressing into her hips. "Yessss," he said, the 's' elongating into a hiss as Pansy slid herself down his length.

She gave a gasp as he thrust upwards, the head of his shaft hitting a spot that she'd previously believed was reserved only for quality time alone in her bedroom with her collection of mail-order purchases from Madame Marchbank's Wands for Wayward Witches.

"Like that?" Harry said, his teeth against her neck as he lifted her with seeming effortlessness, and Pansy moaned her agreement as his cock thrust into her again.

"I said," Harry growled, "Do - you - like - that?"

He punctuated each word with a buck of his hips, and Pansy curled her nails into the skin of his shoulders as she groaned, "Fuck, _yes_!"

Harry's smile was lazy, though his face was flushed as he moved his hand back to her nape, tipping her mouth towards his. "And are -" he inhaled sharply as Pansy bounced herself up and down, her back arching as he hit her G-spot again. "Are you grateful?"

"Oh!" she said, "Oh, _so_ grateful." She opened her eyes to see him return her grin, and brought her hands to his cheeks as she pressed her lips to his, feeling the tension building and building and building and -

"Fucking - so - _yes_!" Pansy cried, as the coiling knot inside her snapped and euphoria danced its way across her skin. Harry held her waist as he relinquished his control to thrust urgently, his mouth on her breast as the waves of her orgasm shivered and spread, and then he gave a sharp grunt, and Pansy bent her head to kiss him as he came, licking into his mouth as he exhaled, his arms tightening around her and fingers stroking the curve of one shoulder blade.

"And to think I was under the impression," Harry murmured against her mouth after a few minutes, "that charity begins at home."

Pansy hummed thoughtfully in reply, trailing her fingers from his cheek to his jaw, and then tugging gently on his loose collar. "Depends, Potter," she said, smoothing the cotton so that her hand rested against his collarbone. "Mine or yours?"

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Hope you enjoyed! _


	30. 30: How to Build a Girl

_**How to Build a Girl**_

 _ **Pairing:** A whisper of Hinny, a breath of Gin'n'tonic, a shiver of Voldetrix_

 _ **Universe:** AU based on the film **Ex Machina**_

 _ **Rating:** M for violence_

 _A warning - darkness ahead. I'm told it makes sense if you haven't seen the film, but still, as River Song would say, spoilers._

* * *

 **DAY 1**

He doesn't know what to expect, when the portkey sets him down, but he is surprised by the curving glass, the way the grey stone of the walls seems to fade organically into the green hillside.

Riddle's bearing, his mystique, has always spoken of grandeur - old money and inherited greatness - but this is modern; understated; and somehow all the more intimidating for it.

Harry takes a step forward, and then pauses. After the rush and rumble of the city the silence itself is almost an assault on the senses, and he takes a moment to savour it. The tingle of excitement that has played through him at a low level since the face of the Protean-charmed coin on his desk lit up - _congratulations to the Chosen One! -_ seems to settle as a low weight in his stomach as he watches the afternoon light play across the secluded valley.

There's a whooshing sound of apparition, and a flock of birds takes flight, shattering the peace. "Mr Potter!" calls a voice, and Harry turns to see Tom Riddle striding down the hillside towards him.

It takes a moment for him to reconcile the man before him with the endless newspaper and magazine images that are all he has ever seen of his elusive employer. In the flesh Tom seems less polished than the man whose grin glints from the pages of the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly._ A five o'clock shadow covers his jaw and there is a gleam of sweat in the exposed hollow of his collarbones. But those gleaming teeth, that dark sweep of hair, are exactly the same, and Tom's eyes are bluer than anything newsprint could capture.

"Thanks - I mean - it's an honour to - to be here," Harry stutters out, shifting his weight from foot to foot with sudden embarrassment.

"Not at all," Tom says, clapping him on the shoulder, and though his smile is wide and welcoming his eyes gleam with calculation and his grip is just a little bit too tight. He watches Harry closely for a moment before releasing him, turning on his heel to walk towards the house. "Do you want a drink?" he calls back, and Harry hurries to catch up with him as Tom waves his wand to open a door hidden in the rock.

"That would be great." Harry's distracted from his nerves as his eyes roam around the cavernous space, comfortably appointed with furniture made from dark wood and buttery-looking leather, and, of course, all the latest magitech.

Riddle Industries is the biggest magitech company in the world. Some people argue that in terms of progress, of innovation, it might as well be the _only_ magitech company in the world and, Harry reflects, as he rolls his beer bottle between his palms, it's all because of the man sat opposite him.

Tom Riddle has been called the most brilliant wizard of his generation. He's been called the most brilliant wizard _ever,_ and so it comes as something of a shock to Harry when Tom sprawls across one of the leather armchairs and starts drinking Goblin IPA straight from the bottle. Tom glances up at him and seems to catch his expression, because he grins quickly, a sharp dazzle.

"Well Mr Potter," Tom says, "May I call you Harry?" Harry nods wordlessly and Tom smiles again, slower this time. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're here?"

"I - well - yeah," Harry says, because all he knows is that it has something to do with a product test, that he won an internal lottery in the company; other than that the whole thing has been shrouded in mystery.

Sitting up, Tom rakes a hand through his perfectly tousled hair, then fixes Harry with his electric-blue stare. "How much do you know about artificial intelligence, Harry?"

The corridor that Tom leads him down is cool; that artificial sting of chill created by atmospheric charms, and Harry shivers in his thin hoodie. Tom doesn't look behind himself as he walks, clearly in no doubt that Harry will follow. As they turn a corner Harry catches movement up ahead, and starts. A dark-haired woman crosses the passageway, casting an expressionless glance at the pair of them before disappearing into another room.

"Don't mind Bella," Tom says, without breaking stride. "She isn't much of a one for conversation."

When Harry glances back he can see Bella watching them from the doorway, and the prickle that moves over his skin has nothing to do with the temperature.

They stop outside another door, when Harry assumes that they are deep inside the mountain itself. Tom raises his hand and presses a finger to the smoked glass, which ripples and vanishes, and Harry catches the ozone-scent of heavy wards.

Instead of walking into the room beyond, Tom stands to one side, and gestures to Harry to go ahead.

"You're not coming in?"

Tom's smile is back, but there is something about it now - some coiled, reptilian edge - that makes Harry faintly uneasy. "I need you to test my latest innovation," Tom says. "And you can't test her with me breathing down your neck."

"Test?" Harry repeats faintly, looking through the open doorway at the room beyond. He can see the back of a leather chair, the sheen of polished crystal.

"All products need testing, Harry." There's an undercurrent of dark amusement in Tom's voice now, and Harry smiles uncertainly back at him, before finally stepping into the room.

Behind him he feels the wards go up, and he looks nervously over his shoulder at where he can see Tom's silhouette through the smoked glass door.

 _My latest innovation_ , he'd said.

 _Her_.

Harry turns back to the room, towards the crystal pane that bisects it, and jumps slightly. There's a - not a _girl_ , exactly, he realises, because though she has the face of a beautiful girl, though her hands are small, fine-boned and pale, her body is made of what he quickly realises is a complicated nexus of charm-work.

She's magitech made flesh; a beautifully wrought spell, her feminine shape sketched in glowing trails of incantation.

And she's watching him.

Her fingers - fingers made from flesh, or what looks like flesh, complete with a smattering of freckles - lift to touch the crystal that separates them. Harry lifts his, unthinking, in a mirror of the action and she cocks her head; a strange, avian movement; and peers at him with...curiosity?

Harry's heartbeat quickens, because it _is_ , she looks _curious_ , but she's not - she _can't be -_

"You are not Tom," she says, and her voice is soft.

"N-no," Harry stuttered, caught off-guard by the loveliness of her voice. "I'm Harry."

She regards him for a long moment, and Harry, never comfortable with silence, clears his throat and asks her, "What's your name?"

"Tom calls me Seven," she says. "Six came before me, and I am the seventh." Her eyes close for a moment, and she rolls her head slowly as though listening to a distant sound. When she opens them Harry finds that he cannot look away from their rich darkness.

"But my name is Ginevra."

 **DAY 4**

"Do you like her?" Tom asks, and though he leans back in his chair, though his tone is casual, Harry can sense the undercurrent of eagerness to it.

 _I named myself after the juniper bushes,_ she had said earlier that day, gesturing open-handed towards the small garden outside her room, where a number of the spiny shrubs grow among other immature plants. _Evergreen_ , she had whispered, before looking back at him over the insubstantial spell-stuff of her shoulder.

Harry has sat with her for at least an hour every day since he arrived, and has spoken at length with Tom afterwards, but this is the first time his employer has asked him this question.

"'Like' is a difficult word," he says carefully, and Tom's grin is merciless.

 **DAY 7**

" _I looked it up," Harry says. "Your name, I mean. It's a variation of Guinevere."_

" _Wife of Arthur," Ginevra eyes are on the play of sunlight on the window of her room, and Harry slides his gaze along the perfect angle of her cheek. "Betrayed him for his loyal knight, Lancelot." She blinks, shoots him a quick, furtive look. Her face is oddly blank, always watchful, but for a moment the flicker of emotion in her eyes is so real that Harry's breath catches._

"What's the point of this?" he asks Tom that evening, after they have eaten meltingly good steak, and drunk perhaps a little too much (at least in Harry's case) of a very fine red wine. Bella prowls in and out of the room, her feet meeting the floor with the soundless precision of a cat's, clearing the plates and bringing in another bottle. Tom trails a finger absently down her arm as she leans across him, the touch intimate enough to dissolve any lingering doubts that Harry had about his relationship with the silent woman, and he has just about concluded that his question is going to go unanswered when Tom sits upright, leaning forward across the table.

"Life," he murmurs, "is so endlessly fascinating; endlessly varied." He lifts his wine and takes a long sip, seeming to savour it. A drop sits in the middle of his bottom lip, looking like a spot of blood. "But all life is finite," Tom says. "It has a beginning and an end. The body decays, the mind splinters. The soul," he rolls the word on his tongue, tasting it as he had the wine, "departs."

"So?" Harry presses, though Tom's intensity, always slightly unnerving, is of a particularly manic sort this evening, and the vague, nervous fear that has haunted Harry since he arrived has acquired a keen edge.

"So," Tom continues. "I wondered, what if I can make a body that will never die, place in it a mind that will never deteriorate?" He meets Harry's gaze, blue on green. "What of a soul?"

"She's a machine," Harry says, though he can hear it in his own voice that he doesn't quite believe that anymore; there is the slightest whisper of a question in the words, and he finds that he is desperate to have Tom contradict him, to say _No, no she's more -_

"She is," the other man nods. "She is a machine built of silver wire, phoenix tears and unicorn blood." Harry starts, but Tom waves a hand. "Let by virgins on the Russian Steppe, and given freely," he says. "And then once I had created the enchantments that would make her body work, I gave her a brain made from Antimony, and fed into it every scrap of information that has passed through the servers of Riddle Industries since I established the company." There's a feverish light in his eyes now, a gentle flush over his cheeks, and Harry finds himself wondering whether Tom is actually quite drunk. "I have written every letter of code, cast every spell that makes her," he says, stabbing the table with his finger to emphasise the words. "I poured myself into her, and now you ask me what is the point?"

Tom's harsh breath is the only sound in the room, and Harry catches a flicker of movement; Bella is watching from the doorway, away from Tom's eyeline, but when she sees Harry watching her she turns and disappears in a flurry of dark silk.

 **DAY 9**

"He thinks that I am his," Ginevra murmurs, tracing a shapeless design on the crystal. Harry's fingers follow hers, hypnotised by her. There's a spray of freckles across her face, too, and part of him wants to shake his head at Tom's whimsy. Her brows are fine, the hair strawberry blonde, and _did he base you on someone real_ , Harry wants to ask.

 _Are you real?_

Ginevra pauses, looks directly at him as though she has heard the question, and Harry swallows.

 _I fed into it every scrap of information that has passed through the servers of Riddle Industries -_

"I can do magic," Ginevra whispers, and Harry is brought back to the room, back to the impossibility of her. "Watch."

She clicks her fingers, and he smells ozone. "Now he can't hear," Ginevra says, and her voice is suddenly urgent. "Tom. He watches us, you know, he wants to know what you think of me, what I say to you. He wants to know whether you think I am a success." There's a quiver of movement at the edge of her mouth, as though she would cry, and Harry wants to smash the crystal and reach through and gather her in his arms and - "But he will never believe that I am real," Ginevra says.

"Of course you're real," Harry frowns, confused. "I'm sat here, talking to you."

She cocks her head, considers him in the same cool way that she had on the first day he walked in here. "But you do not think that I am as real as _you_ are, Harry."

His eyes go to her body, to the insubstantial glow of the magic that surrounds her metallic skeleton.

"How do you know you are real?" Ginevra asks, her tone wistful. "Tom built me to think, to feel, to act as human as you or he. Do you think it would be so hard for him to clothe me in flesh? I have hands." She raises them, turns them back and forth, then leans her head to one side, holding his gaze. "I have a face, do I not?"

She does, and he cannot look away from it.

Abruptly the magic in the air shifts, and Ginevra sits back. "Ah," she says. "He is in control once more."

 **DAY 11**

 _How do you know you are real?_

 **DAY 14**

 _\- to think, to feel, to act as human as you or he -_

 **DAY 17**

Harry takes the knife and slices at his arm, opening up muscle and vein, digging, searching for a hint of silver, for the glow of magic, for the awful truth that haunts his nightmares.

 _How do you know you are real?_

How is he any more real than her - than the pain that he has seen in her eyes - the childlike, pure longing that he has heard in her voice when she whispers, _I want to be free_.

 _I want to know the warmth of sunshine on my skin._

The way that she had looked at him as she had said, _I want to know the feeling of a hand holding mine._

 **DAY 19**

"She's manipulating you," Tom grins, lazy and soft-edged with drink. Harry has grown increasingly wary of his erratic behaviour; oscillating between razor sharpness and a sort of brutish, drunken cordiality. "You see? I've made something brilliant, and now she's trying to turn you against me."

Harry pushes himself up from the table. He doesn't want to hear this. He thinks of Ginevra's slow blink, of the way that he can feel her magic on the air, almost taste the strangeness of it.

 _How do you know that you are real?_

He only feels real under her gaze.

"How could she turn me against you if she's just a machine?" he asks, forgetting, himself quite a way from sobriety, to be deferential.

"Oh it barks!" Tom crows, clapping his hands in a parody of delight. "Tell me Harry," he smiles, "Do you believe everything she tells you?"

 _You're not like him. I know that you're not._

 _You'll help me, won't you?_

"If she learnt to lie, then it was from you," Harry bites out, before he stalks from the room, past Bella, who watches him impassively.

 **DAY 20**

"I'm supposed to leave by portkey," he tells her, showing her the ring. "I have to turn it over three times to activate it, in the western field, and then I'm gone."

She watches him, expressionless, and Harry swallows. "You can come with me," he says in a rush, and Ginevra blinks slowly.

Her eyes: that same chocolate darkness that had first enchanted him.

"I cannot like this," she whispers, indicating herself, and Harry pauses, shocked.

He had forgotten, for a moment, that there was anything strange about her.

Ginevra frowns in concentration, then raises her hands to her head. Slowly, bright red hair begins to grow, covering the exposed curve of her glowing crown. She moves her hands downwards, and a thick, woollen jumper and jeans coat the bright, naked parts of her, until the girl sat opposite him really is - really _looks like_ \- a girl.

"How did you do that?" he asks.

"Tom made me out of magic," Ginevra says. "It should not be surprising that I can make magic of my own."

 _But I've never seen magic like that_ , Harry wants to say, and the words are on the tip of his tongue, but then Ginevra's mouth moves, and she _smiles_ at him, a soft, radiant expression, and he is lost to her.

 **DAY 21**

"She's using you!" Tom cries, holding his hand to the wound on his head. Harry's _Impedimenta_ jinx had sent him crashing into the wall, and though he had hoped it would be enough to knock the other man out, Tom seems to have a thicker skull than he anticipated.

"Don't you see?" There's an incredulous laugh trying to fit its way around Tom's words, and Harry feels the burn of anger, of hatred, as the other man mocks him. "Don't you see? You're proving that the experiment is a success!"

Harry lets fly with another jinx, which Tom barely dodges. "Give it up, Tom!" he growls, "Just let us go!"

"I can't do that," Tom laughs. "I can't let you walk out of here with the single most astonishing innovation in magical history, surely you must see that - surely you -"

There's a blur of movement behind him, and Bella appears. Something glints in her hand and Harry barely has time to give a shout of surprise, to stumble forward, before she has drawn the knife across Tom's throat. His eyes go wide with surprise, his mouth working soundlessly as scarlet pours down his front, and Harry watches in mute horror as Tom's eyes roll up in his head, as he collapses to the floor.

Bella stands by Tom's body, her feet in the growing pool of blood. Tom's hand twitches feebly by his side, and the movement flicks a bright red spatter over Bella's bare ankles.

"Bella?" Harry whispers, and she looks up at him sharply, the movement too abrupt, too birdlike, too -

She runs at him, the knife raised, and Harry raises his wand without thinking. " _Impedimenta!"_ he yells, and though the spell hits her in the chest she keeps moving, but now there's a hole in the flesh of her torso, and he can see beneath it the coil and glow of magic. " _Diffindo!_ " he cries, and Bella is torn in two, her legs falling, her body crashing to the ground. She writhes on the floor, mouth opening and closing just as Tom's had, but Harry knows now that even had she words to say she is not able to, and he wonders at the cruelty that would prompt Tom to make a creature like this, to touch her like a lover, but not give her the power of speech.

By the time he reaches her she has stopped moving, and the glow of the charms inside her body is fading. He feels a twinge of regret, but moves quickly past her, seizing Tom's body by the wrist to drag him down the corridor.

 _You will need to lower the wards_ , Ginevra had said. _It can only be done from the outside_.

Harry rounds the corner, sees the smoked-glass door at the end, and the silhouette beyond it. His heart starts to thump in anticipation, in disbelief. In horror. Tom lives practically as a recluse, he knows. In three weeks no one else has appeared on the property, and so Harry figures that they have plenty of time to disappear before anyone discovers the body. He swallows the nausea that threatens and focuses on the task in hand, lifting Tom's arm until he can drag the dead man's fingertips across the door.

The glass dissolves, and he drops Tom, and Ginevra's hands close around his wrists, and her mouth is against his, and _oh_ , Harry thinks to himself, as his heart speeds and his nerves tingle and he feels the leap of joy in his stomach.

"I am sorry," she says, and her mouth is gone, and she spins them so that he is in the cell, and she outside, and somehow she has slipped the ring from his finger, and Harry starts forward but the glass door reforms, and he is trapped - _trapped_ \- and though he screams, though he beats his fists bloody -

 **DAY 28**

Sunlight on her skin, and the cool slip of water over her tongue. She shades her eyes and walks, placing her feet with a dancer's grace as she moves down the city street.

The taste of the words; of the thought; of the magic.

 _How do you know you are real?_

* * *

 _ **A/N:** A birthday gift to the one & only **olivieblake** \- giver of inspiration, receiver of adoration, person of veneration - who told me "I want murder for my birthday." We both love this film, so only too happy to oblige. In story format, of course...my love, my light. Many happy returns._


	31. 31: Like This

**_Like This_**

 _Pairing: Harry Potter x Hermione Granger (omg I know I said I wouldn't touch it with a bargepole but turns out...)_

 _Universe: Deathly Hallows AU_

 _Rating: MA (Lemons, language)_

* * *

 _It starts like this:_

The subtle shift of his hand from her waist to her lower back, their bodies pressed together by the others dancing around them. Hermione can feel Harry's heartbeat through his robes, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to rest her head against his chest, to close her eyes as he lays his cheek against her forehead. She breathes him in, and for a moment the world disappears, until the air is shattered by a scream, and the wedding reception descends into chaos.

They pull apart, staring at one another for a moment, wide-eyed and dazed by something neither had expected, and then the moment is gone, and Ron bursts through the crowd, and there are three of them once more, as there have always been.

Three of them for months and months in Grimmauld Place and then the tent; fields and woods and barren moors. And sometimes Harry catches Ron looking at Hermione, and the locket seems to burn against his skin, his fingers itching with the need to grab her, to hold her, to say _mine_.

And then -

* * *

 _It starts like this:_

"I'm sorry - _shit_ \- I'm so sorry, Hermione, I didn't expect -"

Harry knows he's garbling, but he doesn't know how to respond to Hermione's silent tears, how to make things better when they have just been ripped to shreds.

"Don't be," she says finally, turning to look at him and summoning a grim smile. "He would have left eventually, he wasn't - he didn't -"

Hermione pauses, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. "We thought that Dumbledore had given you a bit more to go on," she says eventually. "But it's not your fault that he didn't." There are still tears on her cheeks, and she scrubs roughly at her face, looking at him with a fierce, determined expression. "We're fighting blind, but I said I was with you until the end, and I meant it."

They stare at one another for a long moment, and Harry feels the same twist of something in the air that he had when they danced together at Bill and Fleur's wedding, that sense of things reshaping themselves.

He reaches out, brushing the last trace of a tear from where it glimmers under her eye, and cupping her jaw in his palm. Hermione leans into the touch, places her hand against his chest. "It's just us now," she says, holding his gaze, her lips quirking into a watery smile. "You and me against the world," she whispers. And his heart jumps against her fingers.

The two of them, for weeks and weeks, on snowy hillsides and in frozen forests. And always between them this new thing, unspoken and unacknowledged, that lives in the glances held a moment too long; in the way that Hermione huddles, shivering, in his arms during the cold nights.

And then -

* * *

 _It starts like this:_

"Harry?"

Her voice comes to him from a long way away, cutting through the terror, the fevered horror of being inside Voldemort's head, and he remembers Christmas roses, her thin shoulders under his arm, her shouting his name after he went upstairs with Bathilda, and the snake, the _snake_ -

"Hermione!" He gasps, surging upright, reaching out and she's there, hand finding his, and then his arms are around her, and he almost can't breathe with relief that she's safe, she's alive, that they survived it - survived him.

He recalls the sick, hot swoop of Voldemort's rage, the momentary flash of Hermione's face seen through Riddle's jaundiced gaze, pale and terrified, before she apparated the two of them away.

"You saved me," he whispers, smoothing her hair back from her forehead, and Hermione shakes her head, opens her mouth to say something, except he doesn't give her the chance before he's pressing his lips to hers.

And it's perfect and it's _right_ and he doesn't know why he's surprised because he's been feeling it, feeling this, for months, maybe even for _years_ , but -

"We can't," Hermione says, breaking her mouth from his, though she doesn't move away, and he understands that now, right now, one of them has to be rational about it.

They've waited months. Maybe they've waited years. They've survived this long. It can wait. With everything in him screaming against it he nods, smiles shakily, presses his lips together.

 _You and me against the world_.

"I have to tell you -" she says, then gives a little hitching gasp - "your wand, Harry, I'm so sorry…"

He feels a wrenching lurch of dread as she shows it to him, snapped almost in half, the phoenix core glinting forlornly.

"It's fine," he says, and though she shakes her head, her eyes full of tears, he gathers her in his arms, pressing his face into her hair and filling his nose with her scent.

 _Safe_. Safe for now is all that matters.

And then -

* * *

 _It starts like this:_

Ron's face twists as the two figures shimmer and entwine. "Who would ever choose you?" the Hermione-creature taunts, reaching out to slide her hand along the other Harry's jaw, her fingers twining into the hair at his nape.

It's almost grotesque how beautiful this version of Hermione is, as though the fragment of Riddle's soul has warped all the warmth, all the goodness from her to create a puppet that is all sharpness and glitter, brittle as an ice sculpture. Harry feels revulsion rise up in him, because Riddle has got her wrong, has got her _all wrong_ , and he turns away from it in disgust to look at Ron, only to see his best friend's eyes flattened with hatred, the sword of Gryffindor raised -

" _NO!_ "

A spell bursts past Harry, striking Ron in the chest and making him stumble back, the sword still held above his head, and then he falls, the sword striking the locket, slicing through the false, silvery versions of Harry and Hermione, which writhe and scream and twist about Ron, who is also screaming, and then abruptly there is silence, and the locket is a dead piece of metal on the ground, and Ron lies next to it, breathing hard.

Harry feels Hermione's fingers twist into his, realises that his hand is shaking as he tightens it around hers. Ron's eyes follow the movement, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows.

"It really is like that, isn't it?" he asks quietly, and Harry feels the absurd desire to laugh, because is that really, _really_ all Ron can think to ask at this moment? The laugh dies in his throat as he remembers the anger he felt at seeing Riddle's vision of Hermione - all cool beauty and cruel grace and nothing, _nothing_ like her.

And _no_ , he wants to say, _no it isn't like that_ at all _, it wasn't ever just a case of her choosing between the two of us, and even if it_ was -

"You left," Hermione says quietly, no inflection in her voice, and Harry sees a spasm of pain cross Ron's face as he hauls himself to his feet.

"I came back though," he says weakly, and Hermione laughs, sharp and derisive, and she is as like the Riddle version of herself as Harry has ever known her.

She still hasn't let go of his hand.

"You left, Ron," Hermione repeats, and Harry feels her fingers clench in his. "And we went on without you. If you had any idea what we've been through, if you could even _imagine_ -"

"Tell me then!" Ron says, and his voice is almost a whine, and Harry's patience snaps.

"You weren't there," he says. "And when you were you didn't want to be." He glances at Hermione, at the set of her jaw, the blaze of anger he can see lighting up her skin. "I think you should go home."

Ron looks from Harry to Hermione as though hoping to find some sort of reprieve, but if anything her gaze is harder, her resolve greater than Harry's, and Ron's shoulders droop.

"I'll be at Bill and Fleur's," he mumbles. "When - if -" he gives a helpless little shrug "You can find me there. Shell Cottage."

He steps forward, and both Harry and Hermione tense, but all Ron does is lay the sword on the ground by their feet; a sorrowful parody of fealty.

When he straightens up Ron looks between them once more, and when his eyes move back to Harry's his expression has hardened.

"What about Ginny?" he asks.

Harry realises that he has barely thought of Ginny since he danced with Hermione at the wedding, months and months ago.

 _Don't wait for me,_ he'd told her, and she'd rolled her eyes.

 _Don't get yourself killed,_ she'd replied.

But as it turns out, Harry has been waiting for someone else the whole time.

"We broke up," he says now. "You know that."

Ron sighs, and nods, the last of the fight seeming to drop away from him. "Well," he says. "You know where I'll be." And with a final grimace, he disapparates.

As soon as he's gone Hermione seems to buckle into Harry, sucking in a gasping sob, her fingers clutching at the soft cotton of his t-shirt, worn thin by too many freshening charms.

 _"_ We can't go back from this," he whispers, as he gathers her against himself. "He - you know how Ron is - he'll tell everyone, so we can't - we can never go back from this."

"I know," she says, "I know, and I'm sorry, but -"

He's gripping her by the shoulders, their foreheads pressed together, and then Hermione slides her hand along his jaw, just as her terrible, beautiful echo had done in Riddle's twisted mockery. But _this is real_ , this is Hermione's real, warm, clever hand, and it settles just above his collar on the back of his neck.

"- I'm sorry," she breathes, "but I don't want to go back."

And then -

* * *

 _It starts like this:_

By unspoken agreement they pack quickly; Harry wrapping the sword of Gryffindor in a blanket and strapping it to his backpack; Hermione picking the charred locket up carefully and placing it in a sealed box in her beaded bag.

He holds his hand out to her, just as he has done every time that they have broken camp before, but this time when she touches her palm to his she doesn't have to ignore the way the simple touch makes her breath catch, and the drop in her stomach that she feels as he apparates them away is only partly the sharp yank of magic.

They land beneath a clear sky, stars scattered brightly across it. Away to the left she can see the glint of a large expanse of water. Somewhere in the Lake District, she thinks, but she doesn't ask, and Harry doesn't say. The night is still, the quiet broken only by the far-off call of an owl; by the sound of their breathing.

"Are you alright to pitch the tent?" Harry asks. "I'll set the enchantments."

"Yes," she says, "Yes that's fine, I'll - I'll pitch the tent and -" Harry nods and walks away towards the stand of trees, and Hermione takes a deep breath, pressing her hands against her diaphragm and feeling the air fill her lungs.

 _Calm down_ , she tells herself.

 _I don't want to go back._

 _Be brave_ , she thinks, and it is Harry's voice that she hears. _Be brave_.

By now she could probably put the tent up blindfolded, so it takes her almost no time at all, and she's standing with her hands resting on the back of the small armchair when she feels the slight draft that tells her that someone has come through the entrance of the tent. She should turn around, should check that it is him, that it isn't an intruder, that they aren't -

"Hermione," he says, lips against her hair, and he is a line of warmth at her back, and his fingers on her hips are light, gentle - a question rather than a demand - and she tips her head back to rest it against his shoulder.

 _We can't_ , she had said, and _how stupid_ , she thinks, as she turns to face him, how woefully naïve of her to try and prevent this, to delay it, to think that they had better things to do.

 _You and me against the world_. She sees the echo of her words in his unwavering gaze; his green eyes seemingly the only constant in her life for the last six years.

"Harry," she whispers, her thumb stroking the bow of his upper lip, and then he is leaning towards her, and she is surging up to meet him, on tiptoe to press her mouth to his, putting every ounce of fierce longing that she has wilfully pushed aside over months, over - good god, probably over _years_ \- into this kiss.

His hands travel from her hips to her back, one settling at the curve of her spine, the other smoothing upwards, coming to rest with his fingers wound in her hair; tightly enough that it hurts a little bit, but in a way that she likes, in a way that makes her want to press her body closer against his.

Harry's teeth close gently on her bottom lip, and she hears herself whimper, digging her fingers into the wiry muscle of his back. She could count his ribs if she wished to, could trace the outlines of his scapulae; could count every part of him, number the pieces from which he is made but never understand the magic that makes them add up to _him_.

The hand on her back moves downwards, finds the edge of her jumper and slips itself between fabric and flesh, and though his fingers are cold it isn't their temperature that makes her shiver. She arches into him, and Harry breaks his mouth from hers, trailing his lips along the line of her jaw, pulling her head to one side and burying his nose in her neck as he exhales panting breaths against her clavicle.

Her roaming fingers return to the hem of his t-shirt, and then Hermione, seized by uncharacteristic impatience, tugs roughly at it, pulling it upwards. Harry obliges her, stepping back and raising his arms, and Hermione sees the flat planes of his chest, stark and bare, the flex of slim muscle across his torso, and then his smile emerges and she stops pulling at the shirt, giving into the compulsion to kiss him again, and Harry flails slightly, his arms still trapped in his t-shirt, but he's grinning against her mouth, tossing the garment away and then yanking her jumper off in one quick movement before returning his lips to hers.

Harry doesn't break the kiss as he draws her with him, backing across the small space of the tent, one arm tight around her and the other hand feeling blindly behind him for the edge of the bed. He finds it, but not before he's managed to bump his head on the top bunk, knocking their teeth together as a result and sitting down rather heavily, pulling Hermione to straddle him.

She laughs softly, can't help herself, charmed and somehow reassured by the clumsiness because at the end of the day it's _Harry_ , it's her best friend and she knows him so well that a smooth seduction would be frankly quite unnerving.

"Are you alright?" he whispers, eyes wide with concern behind his glasses.

 _Take them off_ , Hermione thinks, watching with almost detached fascination as her own hands lift to do just that. His eyes look larger and even greener without them and Hermione obeys her impulse to press her lips first to one eyelid, then the other. "I'm fine," she breathes, feeling herself melting against him.

When Harry opens his eyes again his pupils, already dilated, have nearly eclipsed the bright green of his irises, and under his gaze Hermione feels naked in the most perfect of ways - as though he sees all of her, everything, light and dark and good and bad, and she knows that he'll never look away.

She rocks her hips against his, the movement born of instinct, the friction of the denim sending a thrill through her, a shiver of delight, and then Harry grinds upwards and she gasps as she feels him, hard against her.

As though the sound has unlocked something inside him Harry growls, twisting to push her down on the bed, bracing himself above her as his fingers graze from her cheek, down the front of her neck, across the top part of her ribcage and then delicately, oh so gently, across the cup of her bra. Hermione hears herself make a little mewling sound and Harry, seemingly emboldened, drops his mouth to press a kiss to her breastbone, his hand snaking around her back to unclasp the practical white cotton, and as soon as he has Hermione is shrugging out of it, flinging it away, and Harry's mouth is on her breast, tongue circling her nipple with delicious slowness, and Hermione buries her hands in his hair and fights the urge to cry out at the sensation.

Harry's hands find the buttons of her jeans, stilling momentarily. "Do you -" he asks, and Hermione raises her head from where it has fallen back against the pillow to look him in the eye again. "Do you want to…" Harry swallows, suddenly bashful, and apparently unable to articulate the question.

Instead of answering Hermione runs her hand down the hard lines of him, raising her knees to bracket his hips as she unbuckles his belt, undoes the button at the top of his fly, and then - _be brave, Hermione_ \- reaches inside and fits her hand around his length.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Harry gasps, his chin dropping forward and his eyes scrunching shut.

"I want to," Hermione says determinedly, moving her hand slowly up and down, hoping that she's getting this right, because she's read about it, _of course_ she's read about it, but there's a world of difference between holding a book and holding a -

"Christ," Harry says, and it's wonderful, somehow, to hear him say something so Muggle, but then he's kissing her again, his tongue slipping into her mouth, a welcome, wonderful invasion, and he undoes her jeans, working them one-handed down her hips, and through the growing haze of lust Hermione lifts her bum to help him, and then she feels the palm of his hand pressing against her sex through her knickers, the heel grinding against her clitoris, and he's good at this, knows what he's doing, knows how to touch her -

"I've never done this before," she blurts, staring up at him, aware that her eyes are probably too wide, that she probably looks terrified, and that isn't what she feels, not really, because she _wants_ this, she knows she does, but she's suddenly afraid that she won't be any good, that he might not enjoy it with her as much as with -

"Neither have I," Harry says, and then he shakes his head, gives a little laugh. "Well, okay, this bit -" he pushes her soaked underwear to one side, slides a finger into her entrance and beckons against her, and this time Hermione does cry out, and Harry smiles. "This bit I've done," he breathes, pressing a kiss to the dip of her collarbone. "But I haven't - Ginny and I never actually -"

"Oh," Hermione sighs, and then he does something wonderful with the two fingers that are now inside her and she gasps. " _Oh_ \- so -"

"But there's no rush," he says quickly, somehow maddeningly in control and apparently ignoring the urgency that Hermione can feel building under her skin, and _you liar_ , she thinks, and she grasps a little tighter, pumps her hand a little faster, and is gratified by the stutter in his breath, the way his eyebrows move together and his cheeks flush.

She scrambles against the bed, kicking off her jeans and lifting her legs so that she can push his trousers down with her feet, releases his cock momentarily to push his boxers down too, and then Harry has removed his fingers, is kneeling up and pulling his jeans and boxers all the way off, and then they are both naked.

Harry's eyes rake over her, seeming to take in everything, and Hermione surprises herself with her lack of embarrassment. She reaches out to stroke a finger across the tip of his penis, finding it warm and slick, and unthinkingly she lifts the finger to her mouth, tasting the salt flavour of him. Harry follows the movement, and then gives a groan, dropping back on his haunches and pressing his thumbs into the soft flesh below her ribs as he buries his face between her thighs, his tongue darting between her folds, the gentle graze of his teeth against her clit, the pressure mounting somewhere low in her belly as he licks her out, and Hermione can't think, can barely speak.

"You and me," she pants: three words that have come to mean everything between them, but that right now mean _please_ , and _please Harry_ , and _please fuck me please_ \- and she can see in the way that his muscles tense that he hears it, that he knows that she is at the point of ecstasy and desperate, desperate to feel more, to feel all of him; only him and only her and you and me against the world and -

He pauses, grabbing her wand from the floor beside the bed and whispering a charm, and then he kneels to position himself before he enters her slowly, a gentle thrust, rocking into her and then holding her as she takes a sharp intake of breath at the stab of pain, expected and yet still surprising.

There's a moment of stillness as they breathe together, and then the sharpness of the pain fades and Hermione traces the round edge of bone around Harry's eye, gazing up at him before she presses her lips to his, lifting her hips upward in silent invitation to move again - _yes_ \- _please_ \- _more_ -

 _Don't stop_.

Afterwards they lie together, pressed into one another's angles in the narrow bunk, the sweat turning cool before it dries on their skin.

"I'm glad it was you," Harry whispers against her hair, just as she is falling asleep, and Hermione burrows her nose into the crook of his neck, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm.

And then -

* * *

 **It ends like this:**

After all of it: after the Lovegoods', and the Snatchers, and Malfoy Manor -

After Bellatrix and Dobby and the weeks where Harry curls around Hermione in the bed as she screams herself awake -

After Gringotts and the dragon and Hogwarts and the Battle -

After her heart stops at the sight of him, dead in Hagrid's arms, at the feeling of impossibility - _no no no no, I'd have known, I'd have felt it_ \- and the crashing wave of relief when he stands, when he faces Voldemort and brandishes the wand he that took from Malfoy and _oh, be brave, my love._

 _Be brave._

At the end of it all he turns to her, and smiles, and Hermione flings herself into his arms. And Harry's hold is vise-like - is _never let me go._

And her lips on his are bruising - are _never never never._

And when they break apart; when they look at one another; when his finger lights on the curve of her smile and her laugh falls - delighted, disbelieving - onto the rise of his chest; it is _you_ _and me_ -

 _You and me against the world._

And then -

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I swore I'd never write a Harmony, but I've been coming around to it recently and hey, whaddya know. This story was written for the **Quills & Parchment **'Lemonade' contest, and I'm honoured and completely delighted to say that it won Judges' Favourite, Fan Favourite, Best Romance, Best Character Chemistry, and Most Gorgeous Prose. Which. You know. It's a good day. Thanks to everyone who read & voted, it really does mean a lot. Sxx_


	32. 32: Take a Breath

**_Take a breath_**

 ** _Pairing:_** _Harry Potter x Narcissa Malfoy_

 ** _Universe:_** _Post-DH AU_

 ** _Rating:_** _MA_

 ** _Note:_** _Written as a Valentine's Day fic exchange with **olivieblake**. A Harcissa, as requested!_

* * *

He is lying on his back when he wakes up, and though the earth is cool in the pre-dawn hour, the fact that the chill hasn't yet spread to his fingers tells him that he can't have been out long.

"You," says Voldemort's cold, high voice, and Harry hears the swish of a wand; a delicate cry of pain. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

There is a restless murmur of voices, the sound of light footsteps, and then he feels the soft loam shift as someone kneels beside him.

He can smell her, smoke and dust and the remnants of something floral that he will learn, years later, is gardenia, underlaid by the faintest hint of sweat.

He wills himself still, holds his breath, but when her hand slips beneath his shirt to rest its palm against his chest his traitor heart throws itself against it, as though it would prefer the cage of her fingers to that of his ribs.

When her other hand ghosts over his face he is surprised by the softness of her fingers; by the gentleness of her touch. Her hair tickles his skin as she dips her head low, pretending to listen for the swirl of air that she can already feel beneath her hand.

"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?"

Her voice is so low as to be almost inaudible, and yet something in him twists when he hears the desperation in it.

"Yes," Harry breathes, exhaling his inexplicable disappointment against the petal-like curve of her ear.

Her hand on his chest tightens momentarily, the nails cutting into his skin. Her finger trembles on the edge of his jaw, and then sweeps across his bottom lip as she sits upright.

"He is dead!" Narcissa calls, and Harry fights with everything in him not to turn his face into her departing touch.

 **oOo**

When he pulls his shirt off hours ( _days; weeks; years; a lifetime_ ) later; when it is over and he has won and she has fled with her husband, with the son against whose life her loyalty to Voldemort was weighed and found miserably wanting; when he pulls his shirt off it is the first thing that he sees: five red crescents etched on the skin of his chest.

 **oOo**

"Believe me," Harry matches Draco's glower with his own, mutual loathing barely diminished even after five years. "I don't want to be here any longer than is necessary, but it's procedure, and I have to -"

"Fine," Draco bites out. "Ask her what you must and then get the _f-"_

"Draco."

Her voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, but at the sound of it Draco's mouth shuts with a snap, and though he continues to glare at Harry the bristling aggression that had marked his posture melts away.

"Lady Malfoy," Harry says, turning towards her and swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his mouth.

The last of the afternoon sunlight seems to dance across her face, making her ethereally pale skin glow. Her hair is a soft wave of blonde, the colour a touch more golden than her son's, and the stare that she levels at Harry is a perfect, cornflower blue; almost violet.

"Auror Potter," she says. "I am ready to answer your questions."

 **oOo**

The Malfoy family attorney sits in the corner, quill in hand, dutifully recording Harry's questions, Narcissa's answers.

"How long had your husband been ill?"

She smiles slightly, though the expression is one of sadness. "My husband," she sighs, "was never quite the same after his spell in Azkaban."

Harry says nothing. He can read in the shape of her mouth, in the faraway quality of her gaze, that she has not yet finished.

"It's ever so strange," Narcissa murmurs, tracing the delicate embroidery on a cushion with her finger. Harry follows the movement, fascinated, but then she stills and he looks up to see her watching him. "Saying 'was.'"

She blinks, and Harry almost has to shake his head to come back to himself. "I'm sorry to be…" he wavers for a moment, trying to find a suitable word "...indelicate, but I understand it was you that found him?"

"Yes," Narcissa nods, and suddenly her eyes shimmer with tears, and Harry's hand twitches by his side with the rebel urge to wipe them from her lovely cheeks. She will make a traitor of his every part, it seems. "Yes, I - I don't sleep well, and I thought - a walk in the garden -"

She stops, gives a little choking gasp, and the attorney rises from his seat in the corner. "I think that's enough, Auror Potter, don't you? Lady Malfoy has been through a terrible ordeal."

"You're right." Harry stands too, offers Narcissa a bow. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lady Malfoy," he says, his gaze on hers as he straightens. Narcissa's face is drawn in elegant lines of grief, but the glitter in her eyes when she nods to him is not of tears.

 **oOo**

It nags at him, the expression on her face. He cannot stop thinking about it as he walks down the long drive from Malfoy Manor.

It's in his head all afternoon, as he signs the forms certifying Lucius Malfoy's death as a suicide, as he files the report, as he goes home to his empty house and drinks half a bottle of firewhiskey in place of dinner and takes himself off to his empty bed.

It haunts him for weeks, that strange glimmer in her eyes. He finds himself thinking of her at the strangest times - gazing out of the window at his desk; at dinner with the endless parade of witches that Ron and Hermione set him up with; late at night when he lies alone, listening to the old house creaking around him.

He sees her face before him so often in his imagination that when he quite literally stumbles across her in Hyde Park it takes him a moment to believe that she's really there.

"Auror Potter." Twilight is turning to dusk as she turns to him, her hair lifting slightly in the late autumn breeze. When Harry inhales he can smell her perfume, and he feels the muscles of his stomach tighten; betrayed again.

"Lady Malfoy," he says carefully, watching her closely enough to see the tiniest flicker in her face as he speaks.

"Please call me Narcissa," she murmurs, her eyes lifting to his, and though they are stood by the Serpentine he fears he is more at risk of drowning in cornflower blue than in the water.

Harry can feel the weight of her name on his tongue like a spell, and when he says it aloud for the first time it leaves his mouth like a sigh. "Narcissa."

Her eyes close for the briefest moment and he sees her shiver, though the wind, for now, has dropped.

"Nobody calls me that anymore," she says, turning away to look across the water. Her hand moves to her pocket and he thinks for a second that she's going for her wand, but she produces, improbably, a small loaf of bread.

As she starts to tear at it he remembers the feel of her nails on his skin, and as Narcissa throws the bread to the ducks Harry wonders if she knows that, though the lightning scar has faded, he still carries her mark, carries the memory of her imprinted on him - sight, sound, scent, touch.

Suddenly, and somehow inevitably, he wants to add _taste_ to his knowledge of her. But there are things to be said first.

"Narcissa." Bolder this time, learning the contours, letting the 's' unfurl from his lips like the petals of the flower that she is named for, and when she turns to look at him he cannot stop the hand that lifts to brush the hair from her face.

"Ask me." Her eyes are wide, and she looks impossibly beautiful. It is hard to believe that she is twenty years older than him. When he hesitates she smiles, sad and lovely, but there is an edge to it, a glassy sharpness, and _oh_ , he is lost to her.

 _Take a breath._

"Why did you kill your husband?"

She flings the last of the bread to the waiting birds, then raises her fingers to graze his lips, the feel of it just as he remembers, except there's no Dark Lord, no-one, _nothing_ now to stop him from turning his head, from pressing a kiss to her fingertips. Narcissa pauses, her hand frozen at the edge of his mouth.

"Boy Who Lived," she breathes. "How did you know?"

"You forget," Harry surrenders to the desire to run his thumb down the exposed line of her neck. "I know what it sounds like when you lie."

Narcissa tips her chin up, leaning towards him, and if he thought before that he would drown in cornflower blue, now he fears that he will be torn apart by a midnight storm.

Her mouth is inches from his own, and he can feel the words, almost taste them.

"I wanted to _live_ ," she whispers. "I wanted to be _free_."

 **oOo**

He has always thought the chandeliers are more trouble than they are worth, but when he sees her bathed in drops of crystal light, pale and slender in the middle of the drawing room, he is glad he never replaced them.

"It's so different!" she says, turning to face him, and he struggles for a reply.

 _It's empty._

 _It's terrible._

 _I can't bear it._

 _Stay with me._

His throat tightens around the words, and eventually, pathetically, he asks, "Would you like a drink?"

Narcissa's smile fades, and she steps forward so that once again they are stood barely a breath apart.

"No," she says. "I don't want a drink."

" _I wanted to be free," she whispers, and then she leans back, and Harry nearly stumbles, he is so dizzy, so breathless with want._

" _Take me home with you," Narcissa says, lacing her fingers with his._

He closes his eyes; tries, desperately, to think clearly through the need to kiss her, which has become so overwhelming that he thinks he might die from it.

When her hand slides under his shirt he gasps, and then her nails find their marks and his heart feels as though it will burst.

His eyes open, and all he can see is blue, and he summons the daring it took to defeat a Dark Lord, closing the gap between their mouths.

And the storm breaks.

 _Taste_ , he realises - as her mouth opens to him, as her tongue slides against his, as she exhales a soft moan - _taste_ could never be enough. He wants to _capture_ , to _possess_ , to _devour_ her -

But Narcissa is pushing him back onto the sofa, is making a slashing movement in the air that has his trousers falling away, and then she lifts a leg, somehow still elegant, graceful as a dancer as she straddles him, and Harry cries out as he feels the slip of her against him, hot and wet and ready enough to make him ache. She presses two fingers beneath his chin, tips his face up to hers to watch his eyes widen as she takes him with teasing slowness.

He understands, then, that he is hers to possess, hers to devour, and the knowledge is a thrill that twists his fingers in her hair, that tears the fine silk of her blouse, that closes his teeth around the perfect bud of her nipple and smiles when she screams his name.

She saved his life, and it has been hers ever since.

"Is this what you wanted?" Harry asks. "Is this how you imagined freedom?"

"Freedom?" Narcissa purrs, though it turns to a cry as he bucks his hips against her. "Freedom is hard to imagine, when you have been trapped for so long."

Harry feels himself getting close, but he can feel her tightening around him too, and he moves his hand between them, his fingers toying, teasing, plucking at her clit, and he watches the colour climb up her breasts, up her neck, into her cheeks as she throws her head back.

And then she shudders and melts in his arms, and her lips find his ear to exhale a shaky breath. "No, Harry Potter," she says. "This is not how I imagined freedom."

He's so close, so nearly there, and then her teeth close on his lobe and he comes with blinding force as Narcissa kisses her words into his skin.

"But it's how I imagined you."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY OLIVIE ILYSM BESTIES FOREVER. I love the rest of you too, don't worry. Go check out **Amortentia Chapter 63: Pirate Queen** for fluffy, brilliant, buccaneering Dramione xxxxx_


	33. 33: Take a Chance

_**A/N**_ _: This is a super-fluffy Drarry take on the movie version of the musical_ Mamma Mia! _If you have not seen_ Mamma Mia! _then I'm afraid this will make absolutely no sense whatsoever to you. Seriously, a lot of it is just ABBA song lyrics because I am pure trash and I'm sorry. Anyway, I hope that you enjoy._

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

* * *

 _ **22nd April 2009**_

"What do I get?"

Draco could feel his mouth compressing into a thin line as Potter didn't even look up from _The Quibbler_. His dark hair looked particularly, nightmarishly messy, and Draco was briefly distracted by the unsettling memory of Potter's flushed face and triumphant grin as he'd landed, Snitch in hand, following the staff Quidditch match a few days before.

He gave himself a mental shake, bringing himself back to the issue at hand. Potter might be head of Gryffindor, but he was also disgustingly, unrelentingly fair, and besides, if Draco missed another weekend with the Greengrasses then Astoria was almost certainly going to break up with him. And then murder him. Possibly not in that order. _She'd probably prefer me as an Inferus_ , he thought glumly. _Mindlessly following her commands._

"Malfoy," he heard. "Earth to Malfoy?" Potter's eyebrows were raised, the edge of his mouth hinting at a smile. "I asked what I get if I let your snakes practice with my vastly superior team this weekend?"

Draco huffed a sigh. "Any potion you require," he said flatly. "Provided it's _legal_."

Potter made a low _hmm_ ing sound in the back of his throat, and, looking back down at his magazine, he licked his fingers and turned the page with painful, pointed slowness.

Resisting the urge to growl with frustration, Draco glanced around the empty staff room in search of an ally. Of course, the one time that he would actually have welcomed seeing Longbottom's ridiculously cheerful face, the village idiot was nowhere to be found. Just Potter, lounging around in his awful muggle clothes as though he wasn't the highly-respected Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher but rather some overgrown, bearded version of his schoolboy self.

"Fine," Draco said eventually, when it became clear that Potter wasn't even going to dignify his offer with a response. "What do you _want_?"

He thought he saw the flash of a smile, but when Potter looked up at him his face was a pleasant blank. "I want a favour," he said without hesitation. "I want you to _owe_ me."

Draco didn't realise he was gaping in horror until he caught the glint in Potter's eye. "You can't be serious," he said disbelievingly.

Potter's eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled broadly, throwing the magazine to one side and stretching out in his armchair, bending one long leg to rest the ankle against his opposite knee, which was exposed through a rip in jeans that were so worn they were probably held together by a combination of charms and hope.

"As a heart attack," he said, his grin turning wicked. "The question is, how much do you want this free weekend?"

Potter raised his arms to fold his hands behind his head, ratty t-shirt riding up to expose a slice of taut, tanned stomach as he waited Draco out.

 _Fuck_ , Draco thought. _Fucking balls._ He tried to summon the image of Astoria's blue eyes, her silky hair, red lips, and the feel of her small hands when she ran them over his skin.

It was worth it. She was worth it. She had to be.

Potter raised one dark eyebrow at him, green eyes laughing.

"Fine," Draco ground the word out. "I will owe you _one, single,_ favour."

"Excellent," Potter said, pushing himself out of the chair and extending a hand that Draco stared at for a moment in bemusement before clasping. Potter's grip was firm, his palm calloused. His hand was much bigger than Astoria's, Draco found himself thinking, before Potter squeezed his fingers and leaned forwards. "Enjoy your weekend," he said with a wink.

 **oOo**

Astoria dragged him to a dress fitting, a Ministry ball, and then a horrifically boring charity lunch at which Draco found himself staring out of the window at the autumn sunshine. Potter would be on the quidditch pitch with the two house teams now, enjoying the hideously perfect flying conditions. Draco's stomach twisted at the thought of Potter's wink; of his absurd glee at having wrung a favour from him.

"Draco," Astoria hissed between teeth clenched in a rictus smile. "Pay _attention._ "

 _It's worth it,_ he told himself, plastering a smile onto his face as her small, sharp nails bedded themselves in his thigh.

 **oOo**

 _ **11th June 2009**_

"Malfoy!"

Draco's shoulders tensed, his hand just reaching for the door to the Potions classroom. When he turned around it was to see Potter jogging up the corridor behind him, robes flapping and glasses sliding down his nose.

"What is it?" Draco asked when Potter drew level with him, but the swooping feeling in his stomach told him exactly what _it_ was, and when Potter only grinned in answer he knew that he was right.

"That favour," Potter said. "I'm calling it in."

"Now?" Draco asked pointlessly, thinking of the pile of marking on his desk; of the OWL questions that he had promised McGonagall he would check before next week's exams.

"Right now." Potter's eyes were doing that glittery thing that usually meant either that he was trying not to laugh, or that he had done something that was going to make Draco's life impossibly difficult while also causing everyone around him a great deal of amusement. Draco had the feeling that this would be some combination of the two, and he told himself that the dry feeling in his mouth and the warmth of his palms was dread, not anticipation.

He nodded, trying to make the movement as weary and reluctant as possible, and Potter's smile emerged in all its bright, mischievous glory.

"Excellent," he declared, jerking his head towards the stairs. "This way."

 **oOo**

It appeared to be a rectangle of black glass, and Draco looked between it and Potter's grinning face without bothering to disguise his confusion. "What is this?" he asked.

"A TV," Potter said, stepping around him and fiddling with the row of buttons on the side so that the glass turned abruptly to flickering black and white spots that made Draco's eyes hurt.

"Thanks for that fantastically helpful answer, Potter," he said tartly. "And what the fuck does it _do_?"

Rather than answering like a normal person, Potter shook a shiny box about the size of a muggle paperback at him, and then opened it to produce what appeared to be a metal disc that he inserted into an opening in a silvery brick sitting below the flickering rectangle. Immediately the flicker disappeared, replaced by a bright wash of white, pink and blue around a group of smiling suntanned figures.

As jangling music started to play Draco read the text on the screen with growing trepidation. _Play. Singalong. Extras._ "Potter," he said slowly. "I hate to repeat myself, but what the fuck?"

"It's a musical," Potter said, pushing his glasses up his nose and gesturing excitedly at the screen. "I've been working on this with George and Ron for _ages_ ," he said. "Trying to get _inside_ the film."

"Inside the -" Draco stopped, momentarily speechless in his disbelief. "Potter are you _insane?_ "

"Oh come on," Potter said. "It'll be fun! And I want something fun for my seventh ye-"

"You're thinking of letting _students_ get into a -" Draco bit his tongue, shaking his head and staring at Potter in complete amazement. "How do you even know it _works_?"

"I don't," the other man shrugged. "That's where the favour comes in."

"The favour," Draco repeated dazedly. "The favour that I _owe_ you."

He thought of Astoria's shrill imprecations and sharp fingernails and her narrow, bony shoulders in yet another green silk gown. He blinked, and looked at Potter: all smile-lines and outdoorsy sun-tan; wind-blown hair and ink-smudged hands.

 _Worth it_ , Draco had told himself, all those months before. He looked back at the screen; read the bold, capitalised title: _MAMMA MIA!_

 _Worth it?_ he wondered, and looked back at Potter's eager, expectant grin.

"What do I have to do?" Draco sighed.

* * *

 **ACT ONE: MONEY MONEY MONEY**

* * *

 _[A Greek island in high summer. The inhabitants are excitedly singing and dancing, engaged in preparations for what would appear to be a wedding. A blond-haired man, probably in his mid-to-late twenties, stumbles out of the woods at the edge of a courtyard, blinking dazedly up at the ramshackle, but charming, villa before him.]_

 **Draco** : _[approaching an elderly man stood nearby]_ "Excuse me sir, do you speak English?"

 _[The elderly man, who on closer inspection looks very like Aberforth Dumbledore, frowns, nodding slowly.]_

 **Draco:** "Oh thank fuck for that." _[Squints slightly]_ "Do I know you?"

 _[Aberforth casts Draco a look of mild consternation, then shakes his head.]_

 **Draco:** _[Squints a moment longer, then shrugs]_ "Fine. Well. I need to find my -" _[he pauses, frowns, then gives a nod]_ "- my colleague. His name's Potter, he's about my height, and he was supposed to be back about -"

 **Aberforth:** _[interrupting]_ "Listen, son -" _[Draco is visibly surprised to hear his gruff, midlands accent]_ "- I don't know what sort of silly bollocks you and this _colleague_ of yours are playing at, but the next two numbers are full cast, so we don't really have time for this."

 _[He takes hold of Draco's elbow, pulling him with him towards where a group of people have assembled in the courtyard before the villa.]_

 **Draco:** _[Yanking himself free]_ "What in Merlin's name do you think you're -"

 _[He stops talking, appearing to catch sight of someone on the other side of the courtyard, and quickly shoulders his way through the crowd.]_

 **Draco:** "Potter!" _[Grabbing Harry's shoulder]_ "Potter, this bloody stupid idea of yours obviously works so can we please get-"

 _[Piano music is heard. Draco jumps, staring about himself in confusion, until Harry raises his arm, knocking Draco's hand away.]_

 **Harry:** _[Singing]_ "I work all night, I work all day, to pay the bills I have to pay."

 **Draco:** _[Also singing] "_ Ain't it sad?" _[His face contorts in utmost dismay]_ "Hold on, what was tha-"

 **Harry:** _[Stepping forward in time with the music, forcing Draco back against the wall]_ "And still there never seems to be a single penny left for me -"

 **Draco** : _[Now appearing totally panicked]_ "That's too bad!"

 **Harry:** _[Grabs a fistful of Draco's shirt]_ "In my dreams, I have a plan -" _[Draco is seen to mouth "what is happening?"]_ "- If I got me a wealthy man -"

 **Draco** : _[Struggling]_ "Potter - let - GO!"

 **Harry** : _[Abruptly releases him, turning away]_ "I wouldn't have to work at all, I'd fool around and have a ba-allllll!"

 **Draco:** _[Desperately smoothing his shirt, muttering]_ "Isn't that what you do anyway?"

 _[Harry turns on his heel, and Draco shrinks back against the wall.]_

 **Harry:** "Money, money, money! Must be funny, in a rich man's world!

 _[Draco makes a visible effort to keep his mouth shut, to no avail.]_

 **Draco:** _[With a deeply pained expression]_ "Money, money, money! Always sunny, in a rich man's world!" _[Wrinkling his nose]_ "Well that certainly isn't fucking true."

 **Harry:** _[Spinning away, arms outstretched]_ "Oh-oooooh, oooh-woah, all the things I could do-" _[he stops, and shoots Draco a sultry look]_ \- if I had a little money, it's a rich man's world!"

 **Draco:** _[Very quietly]_ "We are so fucked."

* * *

 **ACT TWO: MAMMA MIA**

* * *

 **Draco:** _[Sidling towards the bar to one side of the courtyard]_ "I will have whatever your strongest -" _[He looks at the barman, and does a double-take]_ "Blaise?!"

 **Blaise:** _[With a look of exaggerated confusion]_ "Sorry mate, I think you've got me confused with someone else."

 **Draco:** "Oh nice fucking try. I bet you were in on this the whole time weren't you, you arse-"

 **Harry:** _[Leaning against the bar]_ "It isn't actually him."

 **Draco:** _[Jumps, then gives Harry a wary look.]_ "Are you going to start singing again?"

 **Harry:** _[Laughing]_ "Not for a few minutes, no."

 **Draco:** _[Scowling]_ "Thank Merlin for that." _[Eyes Blaise, who smiles blandly back and keeps polishing glasses.]_ "You know, Potter, I didn't expect this _favour_ to involve musical numbers. A little more than 'watch my back in case things go wrong,' don't you think?" _[He shoots Harry a sideways glare]_ "Care to explain what the _fuck_ is going on?"

 **Harry:** _[Tipping his head to the side]_ "Well, assuming you can't apparate either…" _[he waits, and Draco sighs and shakes his head]_ "Then I'd say we seem to be trapped in the narrative, which I hadn't expected, but the film's only a couple of hours so I imagine once it's over we'll be ejected."

 _[He holds up two fingers to Blaise, who immediately produces a pair of improbably elaborate cocktails, apparently from nowhere. Harry passes one to Draco.]_

 **Draco:** _[Sips cautiously, then grimaces.]_ "Merlin, Circe and Nimue, that definitely isn't Blaise." _[He scowls at Harry, who is slurping happily at his own cocktail.]_

 _[There is an expectant pause.]_

 **Harry:** "Oh, right." _[Sets his now-empty glass down.]_ "As far as I can tell, as soon as you talk to any of the extras they start to look like people you know, which doesn't really make sense, but whatever." _[Shrugs, and smiles at Draco]_ "Enjoying yourself so far?"

 _[Draco's brows draw together, and he mouths silently for a moment as though unable to form words.]_

 **Harry:** _[Winks]_ "That's the spirit." _[Cocks his head]_ "Ah, I think -"

 _[Frantic music begins. Harry straightens, and the humour leaves his face as he looks at Draco.]_

 **Harry:** _[Singing]_ "I was cheated by you, and I think you know when."

 **Draco:** "What? What are you on ab-"

 **Harry:** _[Clasping his hands to his chest in a gesture of exaggerated distress]_ "So I made up my mind: it must come to an end!"

 **Draco:** "You did - _what_ must come to - oh _no_ -" _[His eyes go wide, and he starts singing]_ "Look at me now, will I ever learn? I don't know how, but I'm starting to lose control!" _[He reaches out and grabs Harry's extended hand]_ "There's a fire within my soul!"

 **Harry:** _[Yanks Draco to him in a dance hold]_ "Just one look and I can hear a bell ring!"

 **Draco:** _[Leads them in a spin turn]_ "One more look and I forget everything, whoa-whoa."

 _[They pause, staring at one another.]_

 **Harry:** _[Looking almost thoughtful]_ "Mamma mia, here I go again, my my, how can I resist you?"

 **Draco:** _[Slightly green]_ "Mamma mia, does it show again, just how much I missed you?" _[He wrenches himself away]_ "Yes! I've been broken hearted, blue since the day we parted -" _[As before, he appears to try, unsuccessfully, to keep his mouth shut]_ "Why why, did I ever let you go?"

 **Harry:** _[Stepping forward to cup Draco's face in his hands]_ "Mamma mia, now I really know, my my, I could never let you go."

 _[The music fades, but the two men are frozen, staring at one another]_

 **Harry:** _[Swallows, dropping his hands]_ "Well. That was a little...er...unexpected."

 **Draco:** _[Gives himself a shake]_ "This is insane - you're - I -" _[He turns abruptly on his heel and starts down a path away from the courtyard, towards the beach, speaking over his shoulder as he goes]_ "You can handle this from here, Potter, consider the favour paid!"

 _[Harry remains standing, hands held loosely at his sides, as extras cavort around him singing_ Dancing Queen. _Harry ignores them, apparently deep in thought, and then begins to mutter to himself.]_

 **Harry:** "Money Money Money, Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, Our Last Summer, Lay All Your - oh dear." _[His foot starts tapping, and one arm lifts to point as he sings]_ "You can dance! You can ji-ive - NO!"

 _[He struggles to lower his arm for a moment, and then sets off at a jog down the path after Draco.]_

* * *

 **ACT THREE: LAY ALL YOUR LOVE ON ME**

* * *

 _[Draco emerges from the sea and walks quickly up the beach. He is dressed in a pair of patterned blue swim shorts, and seawater streams from his hair, glittering on his skin, which is looking decidedly more tanned than ten minutes ago. He looks carefully around, and starts to make for the cliff path before a chorus of unseen voices starts to sing.]_

 **Draco:** _[Cringing]_ "Sweet Salazar, what now?"

 _[A dark-haired female figure appears on a nearby rock. When Draco spots her he visibly blanches.]_

 **Draco** : _[Raising his hands defensively]_ "Astoria I've just had a very strange and emotional boat trip so I -"

 **Astoria** : _[Singing]_ "I wasn't jealous before we met! Now every man I see is a potential threat!"

 **Draco** : "Alright well that's - _man?_ What are you -"

 **Astoria** : _[Advancing menacingly]_ "And I'm possessive, it isn't nice! You've heard me saying that smoking was my only vice."

 **Draco** : _[Backing away slowly]_ "I have literally never heard you -"

 **Astoria** : _[Grabs Draco's waistband, prompting a panicked yelp]_ "But now it isn't true."

 **Draco** : "Oh Merlin."

 **Astoria** : "Now everything is new!" _[She pulls Draco closer to her, seeming much stronger than she looks]_ "And all I've learned, is overturned -"

 **Draco** : "Astoria!" _[Singing, trying frantically to push her away]_ "I beg of you!"

 **Astoria** : _[Glaring]_ "Don't go wasting your emotion! Lay all your love on me!"

 _[Draco is still trying to back away, but trips over some loose pebbles and falls. Astoria leaps on top of him]_

 **Draco** : "Fuck!"

 **Astoria** : "Don't go wasting your devotion! Lay all your love on me!"

 **Draco** : _[He finally succeeds in pushing her off, then leaps to his feet and starts to run away while singing]_ "It was like shooting a sitting duck! A little small talk, a smile and baby, I was stuck!"

 _[Astoria grabs his ankle, and he falls again.]_

 **Draco** : "I still don't know what you've done with me!" _[Astoria tries to rake her nails down his chest and he bats her away]_ "A grown up man should never fall so easily!"

 _[Astoria succeeds in pinning his arms to the floor, and grins at him.]_

 **Draco:** "I feel a kind of fear, whenever you are near!" _[He tries to twist away, but is clearly stuck]_ "Unsatisfied, I skip my pride, I beg you dear!"

 _[Harry comes skidding to a halt at the bottom of the path, now also wearing swim shorts. He takes in the situation at a glance and unceremoniously shoves Astoria off Draco, sending her tumbling down the beach.]_

 **Draco:** _[Collapsing backward with relief]_ "Oh thank -"

 **Harry** : _[Grabs his hand and pulls him upright]_ "Don't go wasting your emotion, lay all your love on me!"

 **Draco** : _[Frowning, starts to sneer, then sings]_ "Don't go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me!"

 _[Harry maintains his hold on Draco's hand, pulling him after him down the beach towards a salt-splashed jetty.]_

 **Harry:** "I've had a few little love affairs! They didn't last very long and they've been pretty scarce."

 **Draco** : "Look Potter, I know what that looked like with Astoria but I -"

 **Harry** : _[Spinning to face Draco, he cradles his hand to his chest.]_ "I used to think that was sensible, it makes the truth even more incomprehensible."

 **Draco** : "The truth? Potter I -" _[His eyes go almost comically wide]_ "'Cause everything is new, and everything is you!" _[He hesitantly raises his other hand to lay it against Harry's chest]_ "And all I've learned, has overturned, what can I do?"

 _[Both sing together as a large group of extras emerge from the sea]_

 **Both** : "Don't go wasting your emotion, Lay all your love on me! Don't go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me!"

 _[Two extras, who now appear to resemble Dean and Seamus, grab Harry from behind and drag him away with the rest of the group, who are shouting and laughing. Draco is left standing alone on the beach.]_

 **Draco** : _[To no one in particular]_ "This is all extremely confusing."

 _[His shoulders slump, and he starts to trudge back up the path towards the villa.]_

* * *

 **ACT FOUR: GIMME GIMME GIMME (A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT)**

* * *

 _[Harry is sat amidst a gaggle of smiling extras, watching three women in sequinned jumpsuits singing from a makeshift stage. The two to either side have bland, nondescript features, but the woman in the middle has long red hair and bright green eyes. She smiles directly at Harry as the music fades.]_

 **Lily** : _[Singing]_ "'Cause somewhere in the crowd, there's you."

 _[Harry half rises from his seat as though to go to her, but is stopped when Draco appears beside him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.]_

 **Draco** : _[Quietly]_ "Potter - Harry -" _[Harry turns to him, blinking in surprise]_ "You said yourself, it isn't actually them."

 _[Harry's throat works silently, but then he sighs and nods.]_

 **Harry:** _[Sheepishly]_ "This is all a little bit intense isn't it?"

 **Draco:** _[Grabbing two beers from a passing tray, and handing one to Harry]_ "It's certainly not the most relaxing time I've ever spent on a Greek island. Quite a lot of facing uncomfortable truths."

 _[They sit in silence, sipping at their beers, until Draco turns to look at Harry.]_

 **Draco:** "Why did you ask me to do this Potter? You could have held that favour over me for ages."

 **Harry** : _[Giving a half-hearted shrug]_ "I wanted to - you never seem very happy, and I thought -"

 _[A squeal of strings is heard, and both men close their eyes with expressions of resignation.]_

 **Harry:** "I guess we'll talk about it later." _[He pulls down a half mask that has appeared on top of his head, and sets his beer aside before starting to sing.]_ "Half past twelve and I'm watching the late show in my flat all alone, how I hate to spend the evening on my own."

 **Draco** : _[Half-smiling in spite of himself]_ "Autumn winds blowing outside the window, as I look around the room, and it makes me so depressed to see the gloom." _[He glances around the candlelit courtyard, and then out towards the fading, glorious sunset]_ "I don't know why I keep expecting this to make sense."

 **Harry** : _[Spreading his arms wide]_ "There's not a soul out there, no one to hear my prayer."

 _[They step towards each other, but both are abruptly snatched away by dancing extras]_

 **Ensemble** : _[Singing]_ "Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight, won't somebody help me chase the shadows away -"

 _[All are now dancing frenetically. Both Draco and Harry are seen to crane their necks as they are whirled around, each searching for a glimpse of the other.]_

 **Ensemble** : "Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight, take me through the darkness to the break of the day!"

 _[Harry finally succeeds in catching hold of Draco. They stumble into the centre of the crowd, and then Draco is jostled from behind by a manically grinning extra who looks very like Pansy. As he lurches forward, his mouth lands against Harry's. They kiss briefly before breaking apart, staring at one another in shock.]_

 **Harry** : _[Makes a slightly strangled sound, before continuing to sing]_ "Movie stars from the end of the rainbow, with a fortune to win, it's so different from the world I'm living in."

 **Draco** : _[Shaking his head slowly, apparently dazed]_ "Tired of TV, I open the window and gaze into the night, but there's nothing there to see, no one in sight."

 **Harry** : _[Reaches forward hesitantly to cup Draco's jaw]_ "There's not a soul out there -"

 **Draco** : _[Curving his hand around the back of Harry's neck]_ "- no one to hear my prayer."

 _[There is a brief moment where they stare at one another, and then both move at the same time, kissing eagerly as the ensemble cast continue to dance and sing around them.]_

 **Ensemble** : _[Wildly]_ "Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight…"

 _[Harry and Draco finally break apart, and both are seen to smile giddily at one another.]_

 **Draco** : _[Breathlessly]_ "You realise I don't even know any of these songs?"

 **Harry** : _[Twining his fingers with Draco's]_ "Come on."

 _[They disappear into the woods together]_

* * *

 **ACT FIVE: THE NAME OF THE GAME/VOULEZ-VOUS**

* * *

 _[Harry and Draco stand together on a moonlit stretch of path.]_

 **Draco** : "Are we safe here? Have we - are we out of it?"

 **Harry** : _[Cautiously]_ "I don't - the narrative seems to be following us, so -" _[Rhythmic percussion is heard, and Harry nods]_ "Yep, there it is. I think we just have to - Draco?"

 _[He looks around, then spots Draco standing a little way off. The music rises, and Draco spins dramatically to face him.]_

 **Draco** : _[Singing]_ "I've kissed you twice, in a short while, barely an hour since we started." _[He steps towards Harry]_ "It seems to me, for every time, I'm getting more open-hearted."

 **Harry** : _[Shrugs]_ "I think we just have to see it through."

 **Draco** : _[Now scowling at him]_ "Your smile and the sound of your voice, and the way you see through me; got a feeling, you give me no choice -"

 **Harry** : "Yeah, sorry about that."

 **Draco** : _[Rolls his eyes as he continues to sing]_ "But it means a lot to me, so I wanna know -"

 _[They sing together]_

 **Both** : "What's the name of the game? Does it mean anything to you?" _[They are both now belting out the lyrics enthusiastically]_ "What's the name of the game? Can you feel it the way I do?"

 **Draco** : _[More softly]_ "Tell me please, because I have to know - I'm a curious guy, beginning to grow -"

 _[Harry is seen to smother laughter, and Draco slaps him on the chest.]_

 **Draco:** "And you make me talk, and you make me feel -" _[His eyes widen again, his expression horrified as he continues to sing]_ "- and you make me show, what I'm trying to conceal."

 _[Harry is now clearly giggling, and he ducks when Draco swipes at him, catching his arm and pulling him close.]_

 **Harry** : _[Singing]_ "If I trust in you, would you let me down? Would you laugh at me -"

 **Draco** : _[Interrupting]_ "You're the one laughing, you twat -"

 **Harry** : _[Schooling his face into a solemn expression]_ "If I said I care for you, could you feel the same way too? Oh I wanna know -"

 _[Members of the ensemble drop from trees and pop up from bushes, making both Harry and Draco jump.]_

 **Ensemble** : "THE NAME OF THE GAME?"

 **Draco:** _[Leaning towards Harry]_ "What are you playing at Potter?"

 _[Harry opens his mouth, and the music abruptly changes.]_

 **Harry** : "Shit, I forgot about this one."

 **Draco** : _[Slightly panicked]_ "What's this one, is it -" _[The ensemble gather around them, and they are suddenly back in the candlelit courtyard]_ "Wait, how the fuck did that just -"

 **Ensemble** : _[Singing]_ "People everywhere! A sense of expectation hanging in the air!"

 **Harry** : "I'm sure it'll be fine, just go with it."

 **Draco** : "Go with _what?_ "

 **Ensemble** : "Giving out a spark, across the room your eyes are glowing in the dark."

 _[Harry stiffens, then shoots Draco an intense look as he flings out a hand.]_

 **Draco** : "Oh, fucking hell."

 **Harry** : _[Singing]_ "And here we go again, we know the start we know the end -"

 **Ensemble** : "Masters of the scene!"

 **Draco:** _[Bats Harry's hand away, squaring up to him]_ "We've done it all before and now we're back to get some more, you know what I mean!" _[Shaking his head resignedly]_ " _I_ don't even know what I mean."

 **Draco & Harry**: _[Ensemble continue to "ah-ha" after every line as they sing]_ "Voulez-vous! Take it now or leave it! Now is all we get! Nothing promised, no regrets!"

 **Harry** : _[Swallows, looking suddenly nervous]_ "Voulez-vous -"

 **Draco** : _[Stepping closer]_ "Ain't no big decision -"

 **Harry** : _[Placing both hands against Draco's chest]_ "You know what do -"

 **Draco** : _[Leaning in]_ "La question c'est Voulez-vous."

 _[Their lips touch, and they kiss hesitantly at first but then with increasing passion, until they are pulled apart by members of the ensemble, and everything goes dark.]_

* * *

 **ACT SIX: S.O.S.**

* * *

 _[Harry emerges, blinking, into bright sunshine. He looks around in apparent confusion, finally spotting Draco leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the courtyard.]_

 **Harry** : _[Placing a hand on Draco's shoulder]_ "Hey, so, I think we should maybe -"

 **Draco** : _[Shrugs him off]_ "Should maybe what? Talk about it? About how much you enjoy torturing me?"

 **Harry** : _[Looking slightly alarmed]_ "Hold on, what? Torture? I -"

 **Draco** : "Oh come off it Potter, with the teasing, and the pranking, and now this whole - this - whatever this is -"

 **Harry** : _[Voice rising]_ "That isn't torture Malfoy, that's - that's - well. I don't know what _this_ " _[he gestures between the two of them]_ "is either!"

 **Draco** : _[Low and furious]_ "Of course you don't, because you never think anything through! Impossible that perfect Potter's actions might have fucking consequences!"

 **Harry:** "And so what if they do?! Don't you try and tell me you aren't fucking _miserable_ Malfoy that's -"

 **Draco:** "So what if I am? Why is it your business?"

 **Harry** : _[Now fully yelling]_ "Because I want it to be!"

 _[Both are breathing hard, staring at one another.]_

 **Draco:** _[Opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before speaking]_ "You - you want it to be?"

 _[Piano music starts. Harry tosses his head with frustration then plants his hands on his hips.]_

 **Harry** : _[Singing]_ "Where are those happy days, they seem so hard to find -" _[Draco mouths something that looks like "for the actual sake of -"]_ "- I try to reach for you but you have closed your mind."

 **Draco** : "Oh very good, blame the victim."

 **Harry** : _[With narrowed eyes]_ "Whatever happened to our love -"

 **Draco** : "To our _what_ Potter?"

 **Harry** : "I wish I understood."

 **Draco** : _[Muttering]_ "You and me both."

 **Harry** : "It used to be so nice, it used to be so good."

 **Draco** : "Oh yes, absolutely, for the five minutes of madn-"

 _[He shuts up as Harry grabs him by the shoulders]_

 **Harry** : _[With heartfelt emotion]_ "So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me, S.O.S.!"

 **Draco** : _[Singing in spite of himself]_ "The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, S.O.S.!"

 _[Harry tips Draco's chin up as they sing together]_

 **Both** : "When you're gone, how can I even try to go on? When you're gone, though I try how can I carry on?"

 _[Draco raises his hands to grip Harry's forearms. His expression is pained, vulnerable.]_

 **Draco** : "You seem so far away, though you are standing near -" _[Harry sighs and leans his forehead to rest against Draco's]_ "- You made me feel alive, but something died I fear -" _[He wrenches free of Harry's grip and backs away]_ "- I really tried to make it out -"

 **Harry** : _[Helplessly]_ "I wish I understood!"

 **Draco** : _[Shaking his head]_ "What happened to our love, it used to feel so good -" _[Breathing hard]_ "Potter - this - I mean it, I really can't -"

 _[He runs away, still singing over his shoulder. Harry stays where he is, singing quietly to himself]_

 **Harry** : "So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me, hear me, S.O.S." _[He scuffs sadly at the ground with his shoe]_ "The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, S.O.S." _[He gives another deep sigh before slowly starting after Draco.]_

* * *

 **ACT SEVEN: THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL**

* * *

 _[Draco is sitting on a clifftop path, overlooking the beach. A number of male cast members can be seen dancing around a blonde woman. One dark haired man kneels at her feet, and she is heard to sing_ Does Your Mother Know? _Draco drops his head into his hands as Harry comes to sit beside him.]_

 **Harry** : _[Frowns down at the beach]_ "Is there a reason that Theo's dancing with your mum?"

 **Draco** : _[Muffled]_ "Because he's a nightmare in human form."

 **Harry** : "Only I think Hermione might have something to say about that if he and Narcissa were -"

 **Draco** : "Potter please don't finish that sentence unless you actually want me to murder you."

 **Harry** : "Well, what would you rather talk about then?"

 **Draco** : _[Sighing]_ "I can't get away from this, can I?"

 _[There is an expectant pause, and then minor chords are heard to play. Draco stares at his hands for a long moment before turning to look at Harry.]_

 **Draco** : _[Singing]_ "I don't want to talk, about things we've gone through. Though it's hurting me, now it's history."

 **Harry** : _[Smiling sadly as he sings]_ "I've played all my cards, and that's what you've done too. Nothing more to say, no more ace to play."

 **Both** : "The winner takes it all, the loser's standing small. Beside the victory, that's her destiny."

 _[Both kneel up, reaching out to clasp each other's faces. Draco's eyes are closed, his expression pained.]_

 **Harry** : _[Desperately]_ "But tell me does she kiss, like the way I kissed you? Does it feel the same, when she calls your name?"

 _[They kiss, and Draco is the first to break away.]_

 **Draco** : "Somewhere deep inside, you must know I'll miss you. But what can I say? Rules must be obeyed."

 **Both** : "The winner takes it all -"

 _[George Weasley appears suddenly behind them.]_

 **George** : "FUCKING HELL IS THAT A SHARK?"

 _[Draco and Harry leap apart.]_

 **Draco** : "What - I - a shark?" _[He throws a panicked look at Harry]_ "Is that what comes next?!"

 **George** : "Nah, I'm just messing with you." _[To Harry]_ "Got your message, sorry it took me a while. Are you ready to go?"

 **Harry** : _[Looks at Draco]_ "Are we?"

 **Draco** : _[Avoiding his gaze]_ "Yeah...I think...yeah we are."

 **George** : _[Looking between the two of them, raising one eyebrow]_ "Aaaaaaalrighty then." _[He raises a TV remote towards the sky, and grabs Harry's arm.]_ "All aboard the ejection express!"

 **Draco** : _[Sighing]_ "I hate your friends nearly as much as I hate mine."

 _[Harry says nothing, but takes Draco's hand. They don't look at one another as George presses the Eject button, and everything goes black.]_

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

* * *

 _ **23rd June 2009**_

"Potter."

Harry looked up from his marking, his stomach lurching at the sound of Malfoy's voice. It had been nearly a fortnight since the ridiculously ill-advised trip into _Mamma Mia_ , and he had resigned himself to having to get over his stupid crush.

He wasn't really sure what he'd been thinking that day, when he'd demanded Malfoy accompany him into the musical. It had seemed such an excellent opportunity to use his favour; to force Malfoy out of his stuffed-shirt personality and reveal the glimmer of good humour that he had seen on occasion at Quidditch matches; or when Ron had slipped and fallen on his arse at Theo and Hermione's wedding; or when a student managed to spell Harry's hair Slytherin green for a week.

There was something about Malfoy's smirk that had done strange things to his stomach, and he'd wanted _more_ of it. He just hadn't realised quite how much more, which had been somewhat unfortunate.

He was brought back from his reverie by Malfoy repeating his name, then, "What is it you like to say - Earth to Potter?"

Harry sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Malfoy was leaning in the doorway of his office, and the first thing Harry noticed was that he looked unusually casual - he wasn't wearing robes, and the top button of his shirt was undone. Then his eyes travelled up to Malfoy's face, and he winced. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Oh," Malfoy said, gesturing blithely at the painful looking bruise on his cheek. "I had to have a somewhat difficult conversation with my fiancée, and she threw a shoe at me."

"Right," said Harry, trying to ignore the way his heart sank at the mention of Astoria.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at his lack of reaction. "It was a conversation about how I don't want her to be my fiancée anymore," he said, stepping into the room, which suddenly, or so it seemed to Harry, didn't have quite enough air in it.

"You don't - what - why?" he spluttered.

Malfoy cocked his head, grey eyes still narrow. His hair was messier than usual, Harry thought, and he still carried the hint of a tan that he'd managed to pick up inside the film. "I would have thought," Malfoy said slowly, "That that was fairly obvious."

Harry shook his head, hardly daring to speak for fear of sounding like a complete idiot, and Malfoy sighed. He pressed the door closed behind him and walked slowly across the room, until only Harry's desk stood between them.

"I asked George how the film actually ends," Malfoy said conversationally. "You know," he looked up at Harry, his eyes dancing. "After the shark attack."

Harry tried to clamp down on his surprise that Draco Malfoy would talk to George Weasley by choice. "What did he say?" he asked, hoping that he sounded slightly less breathless than he felt.

Malfoy shrugged. "He said I should ask you. Something about changing my mind?" In spite of his casual tone his gaze was intent, and Harry noticed that Malfoy's knuckles were turning white on the edge of his desk.

"Right," Harry said. "Right, yes. Well I could - I could just show you?" He pointed to where the TV and DVD player sat on their stand in the corner of his office.

Malfoy's eyebrows rose, but he nodded. "Alright then."

 **oOo**

 _[Harry and Draco appear together at the edge of the candlelit terrace. The ensemble are gathered, and above them the sky is filled with an improbable number of stars. Harry raises his hand slightly hesitantly to brush Draco's hair off his face, exposing the bruise on his cheek.]_

 **Harry** : "May I?"

 _[Draco nods, and Harry fixes the bruise with a murmured_ Episkey _. Draco raises his eyebrows, and Harry shrugs.]_

 **Harry** : "I just want it to be perfect."

 **Draco** : _[Smiling]_ "Hurry up Potter." _[He pauses, then blushes and continues more softly]_ "I want to know how it ends."

 _[Harry drops his hand and steps away. Draco looks confused for a second, until Harry turns back and winks at him, raising one arm to point.]_

 **Harry** : _[Singing]_ "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line. Honey I'm still free -" _[He shrugs]_ "- take a chance on me? _[Draco smiles, stepping forward, but Harry dances out of reach.]_ "If you need me let me know, going to be around, if you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down."

 _[The music picks up a notch, and Draco straightens.]_

 **Draco** : _[Singing]_ "If you're all alone, when the pretty birds have flown, honey I'm still free, take a chance on me." _[He presses one hand to his chest]_ "Gonna do my very best and it ain't no lie, if you put me to the test, if you let me try."

 _[They step towards one another.]_

 **Draco** : _[Sliding his fingers through Harry's belt loop]_ "Take a chance on me?"

 **Harry** : _[Clasping his hands behind Draco's neck]_ "Take a chance on me?"

 _[They kiss, and whooping noises are heard from the ensemble. Harry pulls away gently, grinning, and then wraps his arms around Draco.]_

 **Harry** : "We can go dancing, we can go walking, along as we're together."

 **Draco** : "Listen to some music, maybe just some talking, get to know you better."

 **Both** : "'Cos you know I've got, so much that I wanna do, when I dream I'm alone with you, it's magic!"

 _[Fireworks explode overhead. Behind them a water geyser erupts in the courtyard, soaking the entire ensemble, as well as Harry and Draco. They break apart, laughing, and then look at one another, suddenly serious.]_

 **Harry** : "You want me to leave it there, afraid of a love affair?"

 **Draco** : _[Shaking his head, pushing Harry's wet hair away from his glasses.]_ "Oh I think you know, that I can't let go." _[His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in]_ "Take a chance on me, Potter."

 _[Their lips meet, the music rises to a crescendo, and everything goes black.]_

* * *

 **END**

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ _: I started off trying to answer an Anon request on tumblr for Draco and Harry as Hogwarts professors, heard_ Mamma Mia! _on the radio, and then ended up here. Honestly I don't know how to explain this, so I will just say that I had the very strong conviction that it had to happen. This is dedicated to_ _ **olivieblake**_ _and our year of friendship, and though I am sure our inside jokes irritate the hell out of everyone I will just say THERE'S BEEN A MURDER! and then leave it there. Thanks for reading!_


	34. 34: Snow

**_Snow_**

 _ **Pairing** : Theo x Luna_

 _ **Universe** : Eighth-year, EWE_

 _ **Prompt** : From **indieblue** : "_ _Since I'm falling in love with your Theo, I think it's only right I request a Theo/Luna. The only stipulation is it's during Winter. Everything else is completely up to you."_

* * *

Theodore Nott knows winter. He knows the lonely sound of wind through bare branches; the feel of ice in the bones and snow in the heart.

He carries winter with him, drawn over his shoulders the same way that his ancestors wore the pelts of their wolf-familiars after they had howled their last.

The Ministry rule that he must repeat his seventh year, and so he comes back to Hogwarts, weighed down by the name that hangs like a stone around his neck and conscious of the stares that move towards the inside of his forearm, where everyone simply assumes that he hides a Dark Mark.

Theo doesn't disabuse them of the notion. He prefers long sleeves in any case.

He keeps his head down in his lessons; you don't need to answer questions to maintain a perfect grade. He chooses long walks in the grounds over spending time in the Slytherin common room - there is a difference between the damp chill of old stone and the brisk bite of the north.

At mealtimes he sits silently beside Draco. In a way it is no different to how they were before, though now Draco is subdued as well. The old house tables have been done away with in favour of smaller, mixed tables. Unity, McGonagall says in her clipped brogue, will be the new order of the day at Hogwarts.

Theo turns his eyes downwards, keeps them on his plate. It doesn't stop him observing the quiet ripple that spreads through the Great Hall the first time Granger sits down opposite them.

Now that she isn't flanked by Potter and Weasley, the muggleborn witch looks smaller, but somehow more assured. She has grown into herself, Theo sees. Her hair no longer drowns her face, which has lost its childish softness and become angular enough that the stubborn set of her jaw is attractive rather than jarring. He flicks his eyes to the right, and sees the way that naked hope flares bright on Draco's face.

Good, Theo thinks. Draco was not made for the creep of frost, the hardening of the earth. Theo watches them watch one another, and when Granger drags her gaze from Draco's to ask him a crisply polite question about their arithmancy homework, Theo lets himself smile, just a little, as he answers her.

He spends more time in the grounds as the weather closes its grip. He likes the way that grass turns to glittering shards; the pale grey of the ice on the lake as it reflects a snowy sky.

Christmas is spent watching Draco and Granger continue their curious dance, moving his hand over his mouth to hide its upwards curve. When the castle fills once more with chatter and life he flees it as often as possible, ears ringing with the whispers that follow him along its corridors.

Sitting at the lake's edge one afternoon, watching a pair of redwings wheel and call to one another, he feels the lightest touch of heat. In the space of a blink, snowdrops have unfurled themselves from the still-frosted earth, nodding their virginal heads serenely in a non-existent breeze.

Startled, Theo looks towards the source of the sunshine, and finds her sitting beside him, smiling mildly as her eyes follow the birds through the air. Her wand still bathes the ground in front of them with the soft glow of conjured sunshine.

"Why did you do that?" Theo asks, surprising himself. He isn't angry, as such - more confused - but his voice sounds sharper than he intended, and Luna stops the spell; cocks her head curiously at him.

"I thought that was what you were waiting for," she says quietly, and at Theo's frown she gestures towards the snowdrops, which quiver with delight at her attention.

"For flowers?" he asks, noticing that her fingers are long, and graceful, and smudged with paint. He looks back at her face and sees that though her eyes are the colour of the ice they are warm, and kind, and shining.

"For the season to change," she shrugs, and then raising one hand, she pushes his overlong hair back behind his ear. "Not even winter lasts forever, Theo," she says, and he finds himself leaning into her touch, his fingers skimming up the slim line of her forearm.

Her skin is soft to the touch. "You're no Snegurochka, Theo," Luna says gently. He watches, fascinated, as her lips form the name that is straight from one of his grandmother's fairytales.

"If the ice in your heart melts," Luna whispers, "you will not die."

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _Snegurochka is a Russian fairytale that also appears in German (forgive me using the more romantic spelling) about the Snow Maiden. I have a few asks that have been languishing for months and that I'm hoping to get to in the next couple of days. Thanks all for your patience and **indie** \- hope you liked it!_


	35. 35: Back to You

**_Back to You_**

 _Pairing: Harmony (Harry x Hermione)_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: M...ish? Language anyway_

 _Inspired by: "Back to You", by Twin Forks_

* * *

 _I always thought I knew what my story was about - that I knew where it would end. But the thing about the stories you live when you're young is that they're not yours - you're just a part of them, even if you are a starring role._

 _The real story - my real story - everything leads back to you._

 **oOo**

 _ **16th April 2001**_

The door was opened by someone tall and fair-haired, and Harry squinted, scowling, through his firewhiskey haze. "You're not Hermione."

The blondish male person opened his mouth, but before he could respond Hermione had ducked under his arm, her eyes wide and bright with concern. "Harry? What are you doing here?"

Harry blinked, half-gestured at the man he had now identified as Anthony Goldstein, and tried not to sway on his feet. "I'm - sorry I - Ginny -"

He swallowed, and steadied himself with one hand on the doorframe. "Should I come back?"

"No!" Hermione grabbed his arm and started to pull him inside. "It's fine, it's - Anthony was just -"

"I was just going," Goldstein sighed, summoning his cloak with a flick of his wand. "Nice to see you, Harry."

Harry nodded in reply, giving Goldstein a half-hearted wave as Hermione pulled him inside.

"Stay there," she commanded, once she had him settled on the sofa, and Harry sat for a full thirty seconds with every intention of obeying her before he decided that the faux-sheepskin rug on the floor looked much more inviting.

He heard Hermione's sigh when she came back into the room, then a soft chink as she set something down on the table, before the floorboards by his head shifted and creaked as she lay down facing him. Harry kept his eyes closed, even as he felt her fingers smoothing his unruly mop back from his forehead, lingering momentarily on his faded scar before coming to rest on his cheek.

"What happened?" she asked softly, and Harry groaned in answer, trying to bury his face further into the rug and only succeeding in bending his glasses.

"Fuck's sake," he murmured, and Hermione laughed gently before pulling them off him.

"Ginny?" she prompted, and Harry nodded in response.

"Over," he muttered into the soft rug. "Done. Finished. Etcetera."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, shifting closer so that their foreheads touched. "I'm really, really -"

"Shit," Harry winced. "I just - that was a date, wasn't it, you and Goldstein?"

"Doesn't matter." He felt her shoulder move against his as she shrugged. "I doubt it would have amounted to anything serious."

"Still," Harry sighed, then forgot whatever it was he was going to say. Hermione remained silent, just stroking his hair, and he relaxed into the rug, into the sound of her breathing and the gentle touch of her fingers.

At some point, long after the timed charms had turned the lights off and Hermione had shifted to pull a blanket off the sofa and throw it over the both of them, Harry whispered, "Thank you."

"What for?" He hadn't realised that she was still awake, but when he opened his eyes he could see hers reflecting the pale moonlight that spilled through the open window.

"For being here."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, but Harry watched as the shape of her cheek changed in the low light, and knew that she was smiling.

"Don't be silly," she murmured, burrowing close into him the way that she had on the cold nights in the tent, only a few years and an entire lifetime ago. "I'll always be here. Nowhere I'd rather be."

Harry said nothing, just wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss into her hair, smelling the familiar rain and roses, ink and parchment and _Hermione_.

"Love you," he mumbled, sleepy and still a little bit drunk.

"I know," Hermione said, and Harry sighed, and closed his eyes.

 **oOo**

 _ **22nd August 2002**_

"Harry?"

"Just a second!"

He was stuck on a particularly fiddly bit of charmwork, trying to get the spells for improved stability to hold alongside the notoriously recalcitrant speed and altitude charms that some madman had managed to get to stick to the Comet 20 series back in the late 1960s. Harry wasn't quite sure how Oliver had managed talk him into restoring such an outrageously tricky broom, but at this point it was neither here nor there.

He stuck his tongue into the corner of his mouth as he set the spell on the gleaming walnut handle, holding his breath as the whole broom glowed for a second, and then releasing a sigh of relief when it vibrated gently against the worktop. He looked up at Hermione with a grin that quickly evaporated at the sight of her tear-streaked face.

"What happened?" he demanded, as he waved his wand to turn the sign on the door from 'Open' to 'Closed.'

Hermione shrugged, then scrubbed angrily at her cheeks. "Blaise."

Harry winced, and _Accio_ 'ed glasses and firewhiskey from the cabinet at the back of the workshop.

"Thanks," Hermione sighed, accepting a glass before she slumped into one of the armchairs that he had liberated from the parlour at Grimmauld Place, releasing a cloud of sawdust and making Harry cringe, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to clean up a bit at some point in the last eighteen months.

"He ambushed me on my lunchbreak," Hermione groaned as Harry sat down in the other armchair, and he grimaced.

"He said he was tired of waiting for me to decide what I want," she went on, tipping her head back against the chair. "I don't even know what he's on about! I have my job, I have my flat, I have - _had_ \- a charming, handsome boyfriend." Hermione shook her head and a stray ringlet bobbed down into her face before she blew it upwards, where it danced, momentarily, in a bar of afternoon sunlight. Harry was struck momentarily by the observation that it was the same deep brown as the custom-turned Anjan wood broomhandle he'd just finished for Padma Patil.

"What part of that is me not knowing what I want?" Hermione demanded, and Harry blinked away his distraction.

"Well," he started, then paused, trying to think what it was he was going to say. "I mean, how much… that is… did you really want _Blaise_?"

Hermione glared at him for a moment, then sighed and drained her glass. "I don't know," she said quietly. "He was - I liked - fuck." Harry reached for the bottle and wordlessly topped her up. "I don't know." She rubbed her hand over her face again, swiping at her eyes. "God, I wish I wasn't crying I don't even - why does everything have to be so fucking difficult?"

Harry gave a hollow laugh then kicked his legs out to slide off of his chair and onto the floor. "You're asking the wrong person there." He gazed into his half-empty glass and frowned. "I never thought about after the war," he said quietly. "I just sort of assumed I wouldn't have to - to deal with any of this - this _real-life_ bullshit."

"Ugh," Hermione got up from her chair and came to sit beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. "It's come to something when martyrdom would be easier than my love life."

"If you wanted helpful love advice you should have gone to Ron," Harry said, and Hermione gave a snort.

"How is it that, of the three of us, he's the one who's managed to get it all worked out?"

Harry shook his head, thinking of Ron and Susan and the uncomplicated ease of their relationship. "I guess he just knew what he wanted."

"And I never did," Hermione sighed. "I guess Blaise might have a point after all." Harry made a sound of what he hoped was sympathetic agreement and shifted to put an arm around her shoulders.

"Thanks for being here," Hermione mumbled, after they'd finished most of the bottle and lit a fire in the grate and owl-ordered an obscene amount of thai food.

"I'll always be here," Harry said, his voice muffled by her hair. "Nowhere I'd rather be."

Hermione shifted so that she was half-sprawled across him, and Harry yawned as the combination of firewhiskey, warmth, and a full stomach started to get the better of him.

"I love you," he murmured as Hermione settled her head in his lap, and he felt her fingers knit with his.

"I know," she whispered.

 **oOo**

 _ **1st November 2003**_

"I thought I might find you here."

Harry looked over his shoulder to see Hermione picking her way between the gravestones, and smiled. "You know me too well."

"Well that's certainly true." Hermione rolled her eyes and then jostled his arm gently. "How are they?"

"Quiet." Harry nodded at the simple headstone, where his parents' names glittered with an early frost. "Wedding still going to plan?"

Hermione glanced back across the village square to where the large marquee was just visible above the hedges that bordered the Bones's ancestral Manor. "No duels as yet. You did miss the first dance though."

"Bugger," Harry sighed, squatting down and reaching forward to brush at the frost, his hand lingering on his mother's name for just a moment. Behind him he heard Hermione whisper a spell, and he watched as white lilies sprang from the air to settle in a wreath on the ground before the headstone.

"Thanks." He knew that Hermione had seen the telltale gleam of tears in his eyes when he looked up at her but she said nothing, just reached for his hand to pull him upright before she turned back towards the lychgate.

"Hold on," Harry stood his ground, his fingers tightening around Hermione's. "Dance with me?"

"We could dance _inside_ ," she laughed as she let him pull her back towards him. "You know, where it's _warm_ , and we can actually hear the music?"

"You make a compelling argument," he said as he placed a hand on her lower back. "But out here it's just us."

"Ah yes," Hermione nodded, leaning into his hold and letting him sway them gently. "There _is_ that."

Harry rested his chin on top of her head and closed his eyes, and suddenly it was as though all of his life was caught there, in the warmth of Hermione's cheek against his shoulder and the feeling of her breathing; the perfect fit of her against him as they danced to the faint strains of music that escaped from the distant marquee.

Hermione was humming softly along to the old muggle song that was playing, and Harry was conscious of how solid he felt, how the moment seemed anchored - a fixed point in the turning of the world - with the rain and roses of her filling his lungs with the scent of home.

"Thanks for being here," he whispered into her hair, but instead of following the familiar script Hermione went still in his arms.

"I have to tell you something," she said quietly, and Harry drew back to look down at her, her face silvered by the moon that seemed, just then, to shine only for the two of them.

"What?" he asked, watching as she bit her lip and feeling the strange sensation of his heart twisting and plummeting in his chest.

"You remember I had that meeting with the MACUSA officials the other week?"

Harry nodded wordlessly, hearing Hermione saying the words _leaving_ and _New York_ and _in time for Thanksgiving_ and _couldn't say no_ above the rushing of the blood in his ears.

"That's - that's wonderful," he managed to say, and his voice sounded strangled, awful, and Hermione frowned.

"Really?" she asked, and in the low light, after all the elf wine that he had drunk during the entirely too-many toasts that accompany a Weasley wedding, Harry wasn't sure what to make of the expression on her face. She looked … sad, somehow, and he wanted to kick himself, because of course it was amazing, and huge, and scary, and he was being a terrible, terrible best friend.

"Really," he said, hating himself for lying, hating himself for _needing to lie_ as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'll still always be here," Hermione said, though her voice sounded small and uncertain. "Just a little bit … removed."

"Yeah," Harry exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ignore his pounding heartbeat.

"Ow," Hermione said after a moment, and Harry let out a shaky laugh as he released her and turned to follow the path out of the graveyard.

"We should get back, before Ron gets his knickers in a twist."

"Wait," Hermione said, and Harry paused, afraid to look back and let her see his face. "You're sure you're OK with me leaving?"

"'Course I am," Harry pulled her under his arm and forced jollity into his voice. "Should have known you were far too brilliant for us to keep you here. It's why I love you."

 _I_ love _you_ , he wanted to say. _For fuck's sake, I love you_.

Hermione sighed as she let him steer her back to the party. "Yeah. I know."

 **oOo**

 _ **16th November 2003**_

"We're closed!" Harry yelled without looking up, as the bell above the shop door tinkled. Honestly, what was the point of having a sign if people refused to fucking _read_ -

"What the fuck, Harry?" Ron asked, his expression aghast, and Harry felt his determined concentration evaporating completely as he dropped broom and sandpaper onto the counter with a clatter.

"What the fuck _what_?" He crossed his arms and scowled at Ron and George as they stood gaping at him. "Why aren't you on your honeymoon?"

Ron opened his mouth, but it was George who spoke.

"Hermione's _leaving_ , mate." He raised his eyebrows. "Like, _leaving_ leaving."

"And?" Harry shrugged, trying to ignore the leaden weight of the knowledge in his stomach. "I'm aware. But it's what she wants - she isn't happy here - she's -"

"Bloody hell," Ron interrupted him. "Are you _actually_ this stupid?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Harry demanded angrily, yanking his apron off and walking round the counter, the better to glare at the pair of them.

"You know I used to think I was the idiot?" Ron said. "And now it turns out it's you two, with your ridiculous pride, just twatting around unable to actually admit how you feel about each other."

"Hold on," Harry held up a hand. "How _who_ feels about each other?"

Ron threw his arms up to the ceiling with a frustrated growl. " _Unbelievable_."

"You were right, Ronniekins," George shook his head slowly. "I think he might actually be terminally thick."

"Harry," Ron stepped forward and gripped Harry's shoulders. "Mate. Please tell me you're having me on."

"I'm not -" Harry said, "Are you telling me -"

"Come on," George said. "Almost there."

"She can't be," Harry shook his head, "Hermione wouldn't - she'd tell - she -"

" _I know,"_ he heard her say.

 _I love you._

 _I know._

"Oh fuck," Harry gasped, staggering back against the counter and bringing his hands up to cover his mouth. "Fuck."

"There we go," George clapped sarcastically. "Got there in the end."

"What do I do?" Harry said, eyes wide as he glanced to the clock on the wall of the shop. "Do I have - can I -"

"Her portkey's in half an hour," Ron said. "You'll have to be quick."

"Bugger it, bugger it, bugger it," Harry yelped, starting towards the fireplace and then spinning on his heel. "What the fuck do I say?"

"I'm afraid you're going to have to go on without a rehearsal," George grinned as he tossed a handful of Floo Powder into the flames. " _The Ministry of Magic!"_

 **oOo**

"Harry?" Dean looked up, startled, from his tablet at the welcome desk of the Ministry. "What are you doing here, do you have -"

"No time!" Harry gasped. "Which level for international Portkey travel?"

"Sixth," Dean said, "But you need a permit to -"

"Thanks!" Harry took off at a run towards the lifts, George and Ron close behind him.

"There's only one working!" Dean called. "If you're going to catch Hermione you're better off taking the stairs!"

"Bloody hell!" Harry yelled as he skidded to a halt and changed direction. "Am I the only one who hasn't -"

"Yes!" Ron gasped, shoving Harry forward towards the stairs. "Now fucking _get on with it_." He threw a glance at his brother, who was stabbing at the lift buttons with his wand. "George and I'll get the lift just in case."

Harry nodded before setting off down the narrow stairs, thanking everything he knew for the fact that the Ministry was built underground. He narrowly avoided colliding with Demelza Robbins on Level Two, and then had to jump around a pair of goblins who were arguing outside the entrance to Level Four, continuing to clatter down the steps until he burst onto Level Six.

"Can I help - Harry?" Anthony Goldstein was stood in the department lobby, a sheaf of papers in his hand. His eyes travelled quickly across what Harry could only imagine was a picture of utter dishevelment, before he smiled and pointed off to the left. "That way," he said, and Harry could have cried with gratitude as he took off in the direction Anthony had indicated. "Good luck!" Goldstein yelled from behind him, and Harry lifted a hand to wave his thanks before he rounded the corner into the International Travel Office.

Beyond a glassed-in clerk's booth a number of spiral staircases were ranged across a large room, twisting up towards enclosed stone pods that sat about ten feet below the high, domed ceiling. Nearly all of the staircases were empty, but Harry could see someone climbing one in the middle of the room - someone whose curly hair shone deep brown in the glow of the lamps.

"Please," Harry gasped as he reached the booth. "Please you have to let me through, it's very - I have to -"

"Do you have a travel permit?" The clerk stared impassively at Harry from behind his wall of glass, and Harry struggled not to cry out with frustration.

"No I don't, but -"

"I'm sorry sir," the clerk said, with an air of being anything but. "I can't let you past without -"

"Look," Harry said, gesturing at the staircase, where Hermione was already nearly at the top. "I just need to talk to her, I won't even go up the stairs, it'll take two -"

"Ahem." The clerk tapped against a sign on the glass, which read _No unauthorised persons past this point_. "I'm sorry." He raised his chin and performed the remarkable feat of looking down his nose at Harry despite their eyes being level. "You need an international travel permit to pass these gates, and without one I simply can't let you through."

"Fuck," Harry gasped, " _Please -"_

He heard running feet behind him, and didn't need to turn to know that the lift - the bloody stupid, broken, good-for-nothing Ministry lift - must have finally arrived just in time to give him an audience for this utter disaster.

"Harry?" Ron yelled. "Stop fucking about, she'll be gone any -"

"This is highly irregular!" bristled the clerk. "This is a sensitive international border and I must request that you all return to -"

"Hermione!" Harry shouted, throwing caution to the wind and dashing forward into the room while the clerk was distracted. "Hermione Granger!"

"What on - Harry?"

Hermione appeared at the top of the staircase, ducking low to see him through the wrought iron before stepping quickly down, pausing at the bottom with one hand on the bannister, the other clutching her suitcase.

"Hermione!" Harry didn't pause to look back. He heard a mild scuffle behind him and Ron's voice saying " _Stupefy,"_ and was suddenly thankful that the lift had caught him up after all as the clerk's protests fell silent.

"What are you _doing_?" Hermione gaped, staring from Harry to the scene behind him and back again. "This is - you're breaking about twelve different -"

"I had to tell you something," Harry said breathlessly as he came to a stop in front of her, and then paused. Somehow he hadn't actually believed that he'd catch her, and now that he had he was struck by how woefully underprepared he was, his words suddenly seeming to evade him in the manner of matching socks, new snitches, and unbroken pairs of glasses.

"Tell me what?" Hermione was staring at him, her eyes bright and confused and a little bit worried, and he loved her - _he loved her_ \- and surely it didn't matter because it was _Hermione_ , and it was easy, it was so easy to know exactly what to -

"Thank you for being here." The same thing he always said, but different, completely different, completely new -

"For being - what?" Hermione frowned, "I don't understand. Being _here_?"

"What do you say?" Harry pried the suitcase from her grasp. "When I say 'thank you for being here,' what do you say?"

"I say 'I'll always be here'," Hermione wrinkled her nose. "But I'm not - what are you doing?"

"And I say 'I love you'," Harry said, setting the suitcase down and stepping forward so that they were almost nose to nose. Three words that he'd said over and over again, an yet this was the first time that he'd really _understood_ -

"I know," Hermione replied, then shook her head. "I mean, I _know_ that's what you -"

"You're not listening," Harry growled, grabbing Hermione's hands and holding them tight against his chest. " _I love you_ , Hermione Granger."

There was a beat of silence, and then -

"Oh," Hermione breathed, her eyes widening. " _Oh_."

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted. "I've loved you for _years_ and I'm an idiot for never saying it the way I should have, and I'm _sorry_ -" he gave a derisive little laugh "- I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to read the signs and realise that everything - _everything_ \- leads back to you but it does, and I do, I _love you_ , and if you'll have me I'll follow you anywhere - New York, fucking - Timbuktu - I don't care, I don't _care_ , because there's nowhere, _nowhere_ I'd rather be than right beside you, always."

Harry paused to draw a shaky breath, unsure whether it was his hands or Hermione's that trembled, and suddenly afraid, no - _terrified_ , to meet her gaze as he stared at the floor and the seconds ticked past and -

"I'm going to miss my portkey." Hermione's voice was very quiet when she finally spoke, pulling her hands from his, and Harry closed his eyes, biting his lip as he nodded dumbly, cursing his own stupidity for leaving everything too late.

He almost jumped when Hermione pushed his hair back, gently brushing his scar the way she always did, and his eyes flew open when her hand came to rest on the nape of his neck, pulling him down gently so that his forehead touched hers, so that their noses brushed; so that it would be the smallest, slightest thing to turn his head and kiss her.

"I love you," Harry said again, small and hopeful and hardly daring to believe. "I mean it, I really -"

"I _know_ ," Hermione smiled, and he felt his shoulders sag with relief as he brought his hands up to wipe away the tears that had appeared on her cheeks. "You can stop saying it."

"Never." Harry's grin was so wide it was almost painful. "I'm going to make you sick to death of heari-"

"Shut up." Hermione's hand tightened on the back of his neck, and it so happened that it _was_ just the smallest, slightest, greatest, most overwhelming thing to kiss her, to wrap his arms around her and feel her heart crashing against his ribs and her hand tangling in his hair and to taste the shape of her smile and know that he never wanted to let her go.

They finally drew apart when someone - Harry suspected George - gave a long wolf-whistle from behind them, and Hermione shook her head, her cheeks flaming as she smiled ruefully up at Harry.

"I love you," she breathed; the first time Harry had ever heard her say the words aloud; though it occurred to him that he had heard them a thousand times in her patience, in her tenderness, in her smile and her hands and her laugh and the shape of her against him when he held her in his arms.

"I know," he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I know."

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Olivie wanted a Harmony for this song, and I wanted a Harmony GENERALLY, and really this is just what happens when I can't concentrate on a longer story because these two are just so up in my head. As well as 'Back to You' by Twin Forks, this fic was also helped on its way by:_

 _\- 'Die Young' - Sylvan Esso  
\- 'Can't Help Falling in Love' - Elvis (the song I imagine them dancing to in the graveyard)  
\- 'Don't Take the Money' - Bleachers  
\- 'Oceans Away' - Arizona_

 _Next up will be a song-inspired Dramione, and then a little next-gen story. Thanks for reading! Sxx_


	36. 36: All That I Am

**_All That I Am_**

 _Pairing: Rita Skeeter x Esmeranda Zabini (I mean...ish...about as loosely as it's possible to have a pairing)_

 _Universe: I don't even know_

 _Rating: K...ish again_

 _Background: **Sunset-oasis** asked me to write something about Blaise Zabini's mother x Rita Skeeter. I was playing with halloween-y ideas and this is what happened. I would describe it as a creepy fairytale, which is loosely inspired by the italian story 'Penta of the Chopped-off Hands' (cute right?) _

_Here we go, anyway..._

* * *

Rita Skeeter has a nose for a story.

She prides herself on it.

She can sniff out falsehood; scent intrigue.

There is nothing more satisfying, to her mind, than lifting the veil on a mystery - than showing the world that even great men have feet of clay.

Albus Dumbledore might have taken down Grindelwald, but it was Rita who took down Dumbledore, never let it be forgotten.

Secrets are not safe from Rita.

She'll find the truth.

She always does.

x

The road through the hills is long, switchbacking again and again as it gradually climbs. In the summer she imagines the landscape would be lush, green and fragrant.

It is not summer.

The wind bites through her dragon-leather gloves, and she huddles herself closer to the broom handle, squinting, even with her charmed glasses, at the darkening ground below.

In the last village they had told her that the woman lived in a house at the end of the road, overlooking the valley.

The muggle man had crossed himself after giving the directions, and then made an odd, superstitious gesture with the fingers of his left hand.

Rita hadn't needed the translation charm for that, nor for the flash of fear in his eyes when he looked her up and down.

" _Strega_ ," he had whispered, before he slammed the door in her face.

She hadn't minded. She knew that she was getting close.

x

The story has come to her in dribs and drabs, piecemeal smallnesses that when assembled make for just enough information to whet Rita's appetite.

There's blood in the water.

She can _smell_ it.

x

Esmeranda Zabini has been married seven times, or so it is said, and widowed seven times as well.

The stories have it that she is astoundingly beautiful, and certainly no one who has seen her son would have difficulty believing this to be true.

That's the thing though: Esmeranda seems to exist only in stories. Rita hasn't been able to find a single person who's actually met her.

She had thought that the husbands would be easier; after all, wizards are meticulous record-keepers.

But she has drawn a blank. Seven is no small number, but Rita has found nary a whisper as to the identity of the men who have made Esmeranda a widow many times over.

If she was intrigued before, now she is hooked.

Rita smiles to herself as the blocky shape of a villa emerges at the top of the hill. She has the story between her teeth, can see her name on the byline once more.

 _Rita Skeeter, Investigative Journalist_.

She's always enjoyed the sound of it. It feels good to be earning the title again.

It's taken weeks of work - laughing and lying and transforming herself into her animagus form in order to access locked records - but she finally turned up the name of the village in the valley.

She lands a short distance from the villa, concealed behind a stand of poplars. The frozen ground gives a satisfying _crunch_ when her boots touch it.

Rita transfigures her broom and bag into two distinctively coloured rocks and tucks them out of sight. She is on the point of transforming into her animagus form when the front door of the villa opens, and a tongue of buttery light spills out.

Rita freezes in place, uncertain whether she has been spotted.

"Hello."

The woman's face is in shadow; the light behind her too bright for Rita to see whether the beauty of myth has been exaggerated.

She steps forward into the light, unable to stop herself.

"Won't you come in?"

x

Esmeranda Zabini's hand rests a moment on the doorknob. The fingers are long, and when she lifts it, it drifts languidly through the air.

She wears white silk gloves, as though she were an old-fashioned Muggle film star.

x

"You must be tired," Esmeranda says, as she drifts through the house, Rita following behind. "It's a hell of a journey to get here."

x

Esmeranda Zabini's voice is low and gentle, like mist curling across the ground.

Every word is clear as a bell, a gentle, musical lilt.

If she has an accent, you cannot hear it.

She sounds like a spell.

x

"I've heard stories about you," Rita says.

Why is she telling Esmeranda this? Part of her wants to be aghast, but she simply cannot stop herself from speaking. "I wanted to see if they were true."

Esmeranda nods slowly. Every line of her is elegant, every angle graceful. She plucks at her wrist, where white silk meets dark skin, with a delicate motion.

"And what have you concluded?"

x

Esmeranda Zabini has a wonderful mouth, full and pink.

It curls into a smile like a lick of smoke.

It isn't a nice smile - it isn't the sort that tells you that you're friends.

But you want it to be.

And when her smile widens -

When her smile widens you want so badly for it to be _that sort_ of smile.

x

Rita's mouth is dry. She has gone from speaking too much to having no words.

Esmeranda turns away, steps through another doorway.

Rita doesn't move, but then the other woman motions her forward with a slight gesture.

"Come."

x

Esmeranda Zabini's hair is braided tight to her scalp, in complex patterns that dizzy the eye.

There is something about them - you want to run your fingers across them, follow the paths that they trace and learn the contours of her skull.

Can the shape of somebody's bones be beautiful?

Desire manifests itself as a twitch of the hand, longing to touch.

x

Rita is holding a glass of wine. The flavour of it on her tongue is cool and crisp, but it doesn't seem to bring down the heat in her cheeks.

"Is it true about the seven husbands?" she asks.

If her mouth is going to run away with her, she might as well be blunt.

Esmeranda goes still. For a long moment she stares down into her own glass, and then she seems to make a decision, and looks up at Rita.

x

Esmeranda Zabini has astonishing eyes, a brilliant gleaming shatter of green and gold.

When she looks at you, you feel seen: every inch, inside and out, good and bad.

They are edged by the finest of lines, suggesting laughter and long afternoons in the sun.

She isn't laughing now.

x

"What will you do with my story, Rita Skeeter?"

Rita knew the answer to this question this morning. She knew it as she flew up the hill, as she landed among the poplars.

She doesn't know the answer now.

Esmeranda sips her wine, and Rita watches the bob of her throat as she swallows.

She wonders what her skin tastes like.

x

Esmeranda Zabini's skin appears lit by an internal glow, shining like polished wood.

It seems to reveal itself between the drifts and folds of her green silk dress.

A whisper of temptation.

A hint of hidden treasure.

x

The small _clink_ when Esmeranda sets her glass down makes Rita jump, and she flushes, looking down and crossing her legs.

"I don't know," she says, and her voice sounds soft and small.

She hears the rustle of silk, and when she looks up again Esmeranda is standing in front of her. The lamplight burnishes her dark skin, and she is so glorious that Rita's stomach clenches.

"I will tell you," she says simply, and Rita hears herself sigh with longing.

xxx

Once, a long time ago -

 _Longer than you would think, Esmeranda laughs, and the lines around her eyes crease with pleasure._

\- there was a young witch and a young wizard, brother and sister, prince and princess -

 _In the days when we still had such things, Esmeranda adds._

\- and she, in all the world, loved no one so much as him, who loved her just the same.

Years passed and they grew, as children will, into young adults, and the boy wizard, who was by this time a king, married a lovely witch from a foreign land.

But the witch sickened, and she died.

So overcome with grief was the king that he turned to the woman that he had always loved, the sister who lived in the closest chamber of his heart, and implored her to be his wife.

 _Men_ , _says Esmeranda. Incorrigible._

Why me? asked the young witch. Why, when I am your sister, should it be me that you ask to be your wife?

And the young king took her hands in his and told her: you have lived all your life in my heart, and there is none so beautiful as you in all the land.

Beauty is nothing, his sister said. My face will age; my beauty will die.

I love you for your hands, the young king said, turning them over in his. Your hands like two white doves, that I know as well as my own and should never wish to let go.

Then you may have my hands, his sister whispered, for I will not be your wife.

And she cast a severing spell upon herself and ran from the palace, leaving her brother holding her hands in his own.

The king was cast into despair, now mourning the loss not only of a wife but also a most beloved sister. The heart where he had held them both was broken, and he soon grew sick with grief.

As he lay, close to death, the king shut his eyes tight and made a promise with his broken heart, that if he could only see his sister one last time, he would give all that he was - all of his magic, all of the unspent days of his life - to repair the wrong that he did to her.

And because magic is a curious thing, it brought his sister to him on his deathbed.

She sat and wept at his side, the bandaged stumps where her hands should have been held tight to her chest.

And her brother whispered, I will give you hands again, my dearest, and all the magic of my being besides.

With that, he breathed his last, but as he did two white doves flew in at the window and landed at the girl's wrists, becoming a pair of hands so fine they looked as though they were made of silk. And as her brother's magic settled upon her, the girl found that where she had been tired and hungry from her long journey back to him, she now felt no discomfort.

 _And so, Esmeranda says quietly, that was the first._

 _The first what? Rita asks. She's leaning forward, avid with interest._

 _Esmeranda cocks her head, then reaches out with one gloved hand and runs the backs of her white-silk fingers gently across Rita's cheek._

 _Hush, she whispers. There's much more to tell._

After her brother's death the people petitioned the girl to become queen, and she agreed.

For a time all was well, but the queen was pale, and sad, and lonely, since for all that she had rejected her brother as a suitor she had still loved him dearly.

At night she would walk in the gardens of the palace, where the scent of lemons pierced the warm air. She would trail her white hands through the low shrubs, sighing deeply, and every so often she would sing: a haunting melody sweetened by the delicacy of her voice.

And so it was that one night a young gardener, who had fallen asleep in the shade of a lemon tree, awoke to hear his queen singing to herself.

His heart soared; his skin broke out in goosebumps; and he declared that never before had he heard something beautiful.

The young gardener soon returned every night to the garden, hoping to hear his queen once more; to catch a glimpse of her lovely face.

After many months, he finally summoned the courage to step out of the shadow of the lemon grove, and speak his heart to her.

My queen, he cried, bowing low before her. Many nights have I visited these paths and avenues to listen to your song. I am but a humble gardener, but I must tell you that I love you, and ask only that you will love me in return.

The queen turned to him, and in the moonlight she was beautiful, and strange, and sad.

Why do you love me? she asked the young man quietly.

For your voice, he said. For your voice that could charm the birds from the trees and has so bewitched my heart.

The queen sighed and said, Then you may have my voice.

And she drew one of her white-fingered hands across her long throat, gathering her voice as a glow beneath her fingers, and she gave it to the young gardener, who held it reverently in his hand.

He took it to his home and placed it in a jar, and the young man lay on his bed and listened, first for hours, then days, then weeks, to the beauty of his queen's voice.

But the song was always sad; always filled with heartache; and soon the young gardener grew tired and sick, and he realised that though he loved the voice it could never truly be his.

One night, beneath the quiet moon, the young gardener closed his eyes and made a promise that if he could only see his queen once more he would give her back her voice and all that he was or ever would be besides; right down to the touch of his hands, that made plants grow green and strong.

So it was that magic brought the queen to him, and though tears traced silver down her cheeks she made not a sound, for the young gardener had taken her voice from her for the sake of love.

The young gardener gazed up at his queen's face and smiled, and died, just as the clear, sweet voices of the church bells chimed out. And their songs curled together in the air, mixing with the magic of the young gardener's unlived days, and made their home in the queen's throat so that when she spoke her voice, beautiful before, now sounded like the clear chime of a bell.

 _That was the second, Esmeranda says, running a finger around the rim of her glass until the crystal sings._

 _Rita says nothing, for to hear her own voice would be to break the spell of Esmeranda's._

The people loved their queen, though she was so strange and sad. They whispered that she had been touched by unusual magics, and indeed she seemed often to be not quite of this earth.

When she had reigned for some years, a painter came to her court. He had travelled from a country to the north, where there was a city built on water where the painters were renowned for the way that they captured light.

When the painter saw the queen he was overcome by longing, for she was quite the most perfect thing that he had ever laid eyes upon. He swept his wide hat from his head, bent to one knee, and beseeched her to allow him to paint her portrait.

This the queen did, and the painter spent many happy hours gazing at her face as he rendered it in oils.

It took months for the painter to complete the commission, such was the delicate care he took, with every stroke of his brush, to capture the queen's incomparable loveliness.

But complete it he did, and when he had done so the queen came to see his work. And the painter was so overcome by her presence once more in his studio that he dropped to his knees and pressed kisses to her white hand.

My queen, he said. My love, my light. Your lips are like nothing I have ever seen, and I am quite overcome with love for you.

Love for me? the queen asked. Yet you say you love my lips.

And so I do, said the painter.

Very well, said the queen. And she sliced the lips from her mouth and gave them to the painter to kiss.

He travelled home to the city that sat on the water, but he found himself quite without the desire to paint. His only care was for the queen's lips, perfect as the swell of summer fruit, and soon he fell victim to a consumption which ate the meat from his bones. He sold all of his paintings save one, which was a still life in which the dusky flesh of a peach seemed to glow.

And soon the painter was brought to the poorhouse, with nothing but the queen's lips and his final painting to comfort him as he sweated his sickness. If only she would return, he whispered in his delirium. If only she would return and press her lips to my skin, I would give all that I am or ever will be; my artist's eye that sees the true shape of all things.

So it was that as he drew his final breath, magic brought the queen to his side. As the air left the painter's lungs in a sigh the magic of his wish settled on her, and the queen smiled. As his eyes fluttered closed the painter saw that that her lips had become as full and pink as the flesh of the peach he had painted, and then the queen leaned forward and kissed him gently on the brow.

 _He died too? Rita asks quietly._

 _Esmeranda looks up at her and nods slowly. He was the third, she says, and purses her ripe pink lips._

Now the queen had travelled far from her kingdom to come to the painter's side, and she knew that were she to return her people would find her changed by the magic of the men who had loved her.

Instead, she went to the port of the great city built on water, and there she found a captain who agreed that she could travel on his ship to the new world.

I have nothing with which to pay you, the queen said in her voice like a bell. She spread her white hands wide to show their emptiness, and bit the peach-flesh of her lip.

No matter, said the captain. You may travel for free.

Now the queen knew that nothing came without a price, but she said nothing, merely nodded her agreement, and boarded the ship.

Over the weeks of travel she proved herself an invaluable passenger. At the sight of danger she would call out in her clear voice; if a sailor sickened she would mop his brow and kiss comfort to his skin. When a great storm swept the ship up in its arms she held fast to a sheet with her silk-fine hands, and the sail stayed true, and the vessel was saved.

When they arrived in the new world the captain called her to his cabin, and the queen knew that he would now demand his price.

You are a wonder, the captain said. I have never seen beauty such as yours, and I am certain that I love you.

What is it that you love? the queen asked.

The captain considered her for a moment, then smiled. Your hair, he said. Your hair that is like ebony silk, that I long to run my fingers through as I whisper words of devotion.

Then you may have my hair, the queen said. And she tore it from her scalp, leaving herself bald as a newborn bird, before she left the captain alone in his cabin and stepped from the ship to the new shore.

Every night the captain would bury his face in the queen's hair, delighting in the feel of it against his skin. But soon he realised that without the warmth of the living woman her hair was as a dead thing, and he grew pale and thin with desire.

If she would only return, he told the moon. If she would only return I would give her all that I am or ever shall be; all the passion of my wanderer's heart.

And magic listened, and it brought the queen to the captain's side where he sat in a tavern, deep in his cups and deep in his melancholy.

The captain sighed to see her, and smiled, and his heart, weakened by storms and seas and nights under sail, beat once and then no more.

The magic of his wandering soul settled itself on the queen, and with it brought a tarred rope that wound itself in patterns across her bare skull, gleaming in the light of tapers.

 _The fourth, Rita says. Her eyes go to her quill, which records every word._

 _Yes, Esmeranda says. Unconsciously, or so it seems, her hand lifts to smooth across the tight braids that coil over her head._

In the new world the queen was a queen no longer, but she had her magic, and she had her dove-white hands, her chiming voice, her ripe lips and the lustrous braids of her hair.

She wandered many leagues on foot, sleeping beneath the moonlight and becoming a friend to the magic of the land.

One day, she came to the banks of a river and knelt to drink. The wind whispered through the trees, and when the no-longer-queen looked up she saw a man watching her.

He was out hunting, he told her, showing her his quiver of arrows. He had seen her by the riverside, he said, and he had been so stricken by her beauty that he knew he had to speak to her.

The witch looked up at him, and the hunter reached out a trembling hand.

Your eyes, he said. A man could count himself lucky to die in their sight.

You love my eyes? the witch asked, and the hunter nodded, overcome by the dance of the colours in them.

Then you may have them, the witch said. And she whispered a spell that plucked her eyes from her head, and gave them to the hunter.

He took them home to his tribe, and lay in his pallet bed, and gazed and gazed and gazed into the eyes that shone no longer, that were dim and devoid of life.

Ah, the hunter sighed to himself. Ah, but when she looked at me it was like two precious gems glittered. For one sight of her I would give all that I am or ever shall be; all my hunter's speed and accuracy.

Soon the witch came to his side, her eyeless face turned towards the rattling noise of the hunter's breath, now the only thing that filled his body, which had wasted and shrunk as his longing had grown.

But the hunter had two stones of malachite set in gold, and as his breaths grew shallow he offered them to the witch. She blinked her empty sockets, and then looked at him with eyes of green and gold, and the hunter smiled, and reached a hand towards her face, and died.

 _Esmeranda looks off to the side, and Rita thinks that she catches the glitter of tears in her jewel-bright eyes._

 _And he was the fifth? she asks._

 _Esmeranda says nothing. She is staring out of the window at the night sky._

The witch's travels took her back and forth across the new world, and she learned the shape of it in her feet. One night as she sat with her back to a tree, she realised that what she had thought was a trick of the moonlight was in fact a small fire, and she realised also that it had been many years since she had enjoyed another's company.

She made her way to the fire, where a man sat warming his aged fingers. He looked up at her, and she saw his face grow pale at the sight of her beauty.

May I sit with you? the witch asked, and the man nodded his assent, scrambling to make room for her in the small circle of warmth cast by the flames.

I am a cartographer, he told her. I have travelled these lands back and forth, noting their hills and valleys, their forests and rivers, and inking them onto my maps. But never, he said. Never have I seen a map of beauty to equal your skin.

The witch was quiet for a moment, and then she looked up from the flames to the old cartographer's face.

You love my skin? she asked him, and he nodded eagerly.

Well then, the witch said. And she peeled the skin from her flesh and gave it to him, and the cartographer sighed as she laid it in his hands.

When he looked back at her, the witch was gone.

The cartographer travelled onwards, but he found that the land no longer held any joy for him. He no longer had a care for the curve of a path or the shape of a rock, for the witch's skin was the most perfect of maps.

But when he unfolded it from his pack and ran his hands across it, he found it cool to touch. And though it was lovely it was empty too, and so the cartographer whispered, late one night, as he lay beneath the light of the moon and felt the cold piercing his old bones, that he would give all that he was and all that he ever would be; all the singular attention to detail that made his maps so beyond compare; just to see the witch once more, and lay eyes upon the hills and valleys that her skin's map described.

When the witch came to him she shivered, for the winter cold was cruel to her exposed flesh.

The cartographer smiled to see her, and the cold that had invaded his bones settled there as death stole upon him. And the witch smiled too as the cartographer's last glimpse of the great night sky, itself a map of vanished stars, settled about her shoulders like a dark and glittering skin.

 _Six, Rita says, and Esmeranda nods._

 _Six, she repeats._

For many years the witch looked on as men changed the new world from a wild place into a strange one, and gradually she came to realise that she missed the fragrant earth and soft colours of the land where she was born, and so she determined to travel home.

When she arrived on its sun-bathed shores she found it much changed too. Nevertheless she travelled back to the castle where, many lifetimes ago, she had lived with her brother.

But the castle was a ruin, its stone having long before succumbed to the march of time. And the witch sat on the weathered steps and wept for all that she had given, and all that she had lost.

A young man came across her there and was filled with pity, for she was beautiful, and strange, and wholly alone.

Let me help you, he said.

He took her to his home, which was a modest place, and there he gave her food, and comfort, and never asked a single thing of her, until one day the witch turned to him and said, Do you love me?

The young man blinked in surprise, and considered his answer. Yes, he said. Yes, I love you.

The witch felt her heart grow heavy, for she knew that love carried a terrible price. What is it you love about me? she asked.

The young man frowned. All that you are, he said.

The witch considered her answer, and then she smiled. Then you may have all that I am, she said quietly.

They lived many years together, and the young man made his fortune. His home was no longer modest, and their life no longer frugal, and soon he was no longer young and it became clear that the witch would not age and die as he would.

I would not leave you alone, he said one day, and the witch turned to him and asked what he meant.

When I am called to my maker, the man said. I would not leave you with nothing to love.

And so he gave her all that he was, and all that he ever would be, and the witch wept that he must die, but he kept his promise and did not leave her alone.

The son that she bore was as lovely as his mother. He had a king's grace, a gardener's touch, a painter's eye, and a wanderer's heart. He had a hunter's quickness, and a mapmaker's precision. And he had his father's name, the most precious thing of all.

xxx

Esmeranda has been quiet for some minutes, and Rita watches her, entranced by her beauty.

"The seventh man," she says eventually, and Esmeranda starts, and turns to look at her.

"What of him?" she asks.

"He didn't take anything from the witch," Rita says.

"No," Esmeranda agrees. "He did not."

She rises from her chair, and comes to kneel before Rita. "Is it what you imagined my story would be?" she asks.

Her hands are pale silk.

Her voice is a chiming peal.

Her lips are ripe fruits.

Her hair is a radiant twist.

Her eyes are bright gems.

Her skin is an inky gleam.

Her story is a wonder.

"I loved it," Rita says, and Esmeranda smiles sadly.

"Will you take it from me?" she breathes, and Rita's own breath catches in her throat.

"If I did -" she starts, then stops herself.

Anything that is taken from Esmeranda carries a price.

In her mind's eye Rita sees the riches, the fame that she has long craved. Before her Esmeranda waits, her lips slightly parted, and Rita decides.

She leans forward and kisses Esmeranda gently. Her mouth tastes sweet.

"I would give all that I am," Rita whispers. "And all that I ever shall be, the blank pages of all my work to come, for such a story."

"Then I am glad that I told it to you," Esmeranda smiles. She holds Rita gently as the other woman sags in her arms.

When Esmeranda stands she is lighter, younger, different.

Blank parchment unfurls in her soul, in the place where she carried her story for so long.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Don't ask, because I've really no idea. Happy (belated) Halloween!_


	37. 37: A Thousand Words

**_A Thousand Words_**

 _Pairing: Dramione_

 _Universe: Post-Hogwarts, EWE_

 _Rating: K_

* * *

"Look towards the window."

His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it's loud in the quiet of the room. Hermione turns her head, but her eyes are still towards him, looking, _looking_ -

"I said towards the window, Granger."

Teasing. Is he teasing her? Hard to be sure. She's never been terribly good at reading people; has always rather muddled along with social interaction. It hasn't ever really mattered, when she's had Harry's indifference at one shoulder and Ron's amiableness at the other.

Neither of them are here now. Her shoulders feel cold, exposed.

She looks towards the window.

There's the fluttering click of the shutter and then she hears the soft exhale of smoke from the flash. The sharp, peppery scent of the _Candensio_ charm drifts under her nose.

He makes a humming sound, and she wants to know what it means, but she will not look at him.

She will not.

His stool creaks, and she will not look at him, and his light footsteps cross the floor, and she will not look at him, and he stands behind her, and she will not will not will not -

"This isn't right," he says. HIs hand tugs at her hair, and her heart is in her mouth, and she does not look as he loosens the bun, pulling curls free around her face, fingers just grazing the nape of her neck as he lets the heavy weight of her hair rest there.

She still can't see him, but she can feel the warmth of him at her spine, there and then gone as he walks back to the camera.

"Look at me," he says.

 **oOo**

 _Two months earlier_

Neville is scarlet with embarrassment. "I didn't have a choice," he says miserably, averting his eyes to the floor and avoiding Ron's furious gaze.

"Didn't have a choice?" Seamus asks, incredulous, glaring daggers across the room to where Hannah is having her photograph taken with her sister.

Neville mumbles something too low to hear, and Harry jostles him in a friendly way. "Come on mate, nobody's actually cross, we're just surprised."

It's a flagrant lie, but of course Harry's attitude to things will usually set the tone, and Neville sends him a look of hopeless gratitude.

"Gran said," he whispers, and then stops, clears his throat, and says in a stronger voice, "Gran said, that she wasn't going to have the marriage of the heirs of House Longbottom and House Abbott documented by anyone but the best." He swallows, sneaks what seems to be a fortifying glance at Harry, and then smiles slightly. "And then she said that she didn't give a flying f-"

"Neville!"

Hannah's voice rings, clear as a bell, across the ballroom. They all look towards her, Hermione turning to gaze over her shoulder.

The camera flashes, and Hermione blinks, startled.

 **oOo**

He is the best, there's no denying it. Neville and Hannah's wedding photos are beautiful - candid and intimate and graceful. Having them in black and white makes the play of light and shadow as Neville spins Hannah in their first dance breathtaking.

Hermione flicks through the album, making appreciative noises that she doesn't even have to fake, and trying to make sure that Ron doesn't get biscuit crumbs on everything.

The photograph of her takes her by surprise.

It's almost full-length, and the two edges are framed by the dark lines of Harry and Ron's arms. He's caught her in the act of turning towards him, and her eyes are large and surprised. She blinks, drops her gaze to the floor, and then raises it again, cautious, her lips slightly parted.

There's something fragile in her expression; something so uncertain that she seems completely off-guard.

"Wow," says Harry, leaning over her shoulder. "You look incredible there."

He lifts the album from her hands, squinting to get a closer look before he looks up at Neville. "Your gran was right, Nev."

 **oOo**

The invitation to speak at the International Convocation for Species Rights had come as a surprise; even more so the need for a portrait.

"You're the keynote," Harry shrugs. "Of course they'll want a good picture of you for the programme."

"You should use that one from Nev's wedding," Ron says, apparently guilelessly.

He's wrong, of course. Completely wrong. That photograph makes her look almost nakedly vulnerable. And besides, it isn't a headshot.

But his words sow a seed, and the next day she sends a short, formal note by owl.

It doesn't occur to her that he would say yes.

 **oOo**

"Look at me."

His face is mostly hidden by the camera, but the studio lights glint in his pale hair, painting stripes of shadow into the folds of his shirt as he bends forward, peering through the viewfinder at her.

She wonders what he sees, and is suddenly desperate to know.

He frowns and then raises his head to rest his pointed chin on top of the camera, regarding her with sharp, grey eyes.

What has he seen in her face to make him look at her like that?

"Who are you?" he asks her, as though it's a perfectly normal question.

"I'm -" Hermione frowns, perplexed. They've known one another since they were eleven, he can't possibly mean -

"Hermione Granger, war heroine?"

She winces slightly, the old discomfort rearing its head. "I'd rather not -"

"Champion of the downtrodden?"

There's slight lift at the corner of his mouth: he _is_ teasing her. Hermione folds her arms and attempts to return his stare as coolly as she can.

"I hardly think -"

"Ah, no." He smirks, drops his gaze to the floor. "What then? Upstart mudblood?"

Hermione freezes, feeling anger course through her in a boiling wave. Her jaw is so tight that she actually can't open it to say anything, and then the shutter clicks again, and Draco smiles, small and satisfied.

" _There's_ that fire," he says, eyes warm and appreciative on hers.

She makes no reply as he steps towards her, just looks and looks and looks.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I just watched Season 2 of The Crown and it did things to me. Holiday fic will commence 25th December so look out for that! Much love as ever, S x_


End file.
